


valiant into the infernal night

by MidwinterSun (orphan_account)



Series: as with a sunbeam: The Marvelton AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe – Freemasons Are Wizards, American Politics, Crack Treated Seriously, Ensemble Cast, Freemasons, Gen, Major Character Undeath, Marvelton, Mutant Politics, Mutants, Politics Treated Seriously, Resurrection, Superheroes, The Author Regrets Nothing, as in AU!Erik & AU!Charles, same thing really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MidwinterSun
Summary: This is Alexander, right now: alone and distressed in a thunderstorm, summoned back into a world of warlocks, magicks, and mythical creatures, implored to aid a government organization in its quiet war on Hydra, America’s oldest enemy. And so, lost, confused, and with a sense of self-preservation as feeble as it was yesterday, when he was dead, of course he doesn’t say “no.”
(This is the story of how Alexander Hamilton became an Avenger, feat. everything that happened after.
But right now, it’s the middle of the night, and he’d just like to know what happened to his family, if that’s alright; that would be enough.)





	1. Thunderstorm

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [we keep living anyway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5308961) by [QueenWithABeeThrone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone). 



> What happens when you take advantage of absent parents and a mysterious childhood to drop an unholy combination of musical, IMadeAmerica, and actual Alexander Hamilton in the middle of an AU!MCU that includes mutants?
> 
> A subtle reprise, apparently. I regret nothing.
> 
> The first of three chapters in a prologue that establishes as with a sunbeam: the Marvelton AU.

_Saturday, February 13, 2016_  

 

Oceans of cameras flash, their blaze, like fireworks, a patriotic and entirely disconcerting celebration of America and—tonight—her presently preeminent Founder. His suit is stiff, almost suffocating beneath the stage lights and their sweltering heat. It’s far from the first time Alexander Hamilton has worn twenty-first century business attire, but it’s the first time America has seen him aside from in portraits and a scant few photographs. 

He can’t see the audience. _History has its eyes on me_ , he muses; he himself is blind.

“Mr. Hamilton?”

He jolts. “It’s in our inclusivity and tolerance that our culture and our economy have historically flourished,” says Alexander quickly, praying silently that he recalls the correct order of the cards, “and there’s simply no justification to preclude mutants and other metahumans, as People of the United States, from the general welfare and the Blessings of Liberty, as secured by the Constitution for our citizens—and prescribed divinely unto them as citizens of the Earth and of the universe.”

A particularly bright flash renders him blind 

 

_– in the storm, and thunder renders him deaf as if in rejoinder to the lightning. Alexander keels over beside the fence, between the trees, muscles burning beneath his skin, as tangled hair sloshes water into the mud and sticks against his forehead. The horseless chariot is too damned fast; he shan’t outrun it, and however much fright has enhanced his endurance, he doubts he can outlast a metal monstrosity_

 

– as he natters on about mutant rights while O’Reilly equivocates, trapped between the conservative principles of ‘individual liberty with a limited government’ and ‘a free market’, the latter of which demands he vacillate on the matter so as not to alienate either the bigots or comparative-progressivists among his viewers.

_Remember Alex,_ Tony “I Am Iron Man” Stark texted, just before Alexander stepped onto the stage. _They can say whatever they want about you, but they’ve said something about me that’s a thousand times worse_ – which, while true, is cold comfort. Tony’s now-famed claim of the mantle ‘Iron Man’, while viewed several million times on Youtube, is certainly not a performance Alexander is hoping to surpass in infamy, but even _approaching_ it is something to be avoided.

Yet O’Reilly’s verbal gymnastics are truly impressive, and Alexander finds himself suppressing a smirk, even as his not-so-subtle trolling becomes almost impossible to rationalize. _Almost_ impossible: of course it would be Fox News, with their constant aggrandizement of the “good old days,” that practically bankrupted itself buying the right for one of their anchors to interview a Founding Father, but that doesn’t mean Alexander can’t nettle O’Reilly (or that he should—impossible to rationalize, indeed).

“But I think the question that’s really on everyone’s mind tonight,” says Bill O’Reilly, “is the matter of your resurrection.”

“Yes,” says Alexander. “And, I suppose, my being an Avenger.”

It feels good to— _finally_ —say it aloud, and the audience seems to have the same reaction. A murmur wafts through the crowd as a hundred cameras flash at once. Then there is a hush. 

“Yes,” says O’Reilly. “So tell us. How were you resurrected?”

“A group known to ASCENT as the Esoteric Conservative Christian Coalition, largely comprised of members of the Ku Klux Klan, sought to resurrect Thomas Jefferson—and perhaps other populist, would-be demagogues – for the sake of ‘restoring’ our democracy to its former greatness, of reclaiming America for themselves.” Alexander pauses, allowing the reporters and the bloggers to absorb the words and jot down a Donald Trump or William Stryker comparison. “I was their guinea pig. If I were anyone else, it would have failed, but magic resonates with me more than with humans. This enabled their spell to succeed.”

There’s another _flash!_ from the sea of reporters. “Ah,” says O’Reilly, his glare-stained, blurry figure bobbing its head. He glances down at his cards. “And I understand, you were rescued by the Avengers? I’m sure Captain America made quite an impression for our country.” 

“That’s right,” lies Alexander(—nothing made an impression in those first days).

“How interesting,” O’Reilly muses. “Care to explain any more?” 

Hamilton raises an eyebrow; this question is not in the cards. _Surely Fox News isn’t foolish enough to invite me to ramble?_ “Alright,” he says, sitting upright, and when O’Reilly doesn’t use some smooth, smug piece of snark to silence him, Alexander adds with a smirk and a glance towards the audience, “I’ll tell my story; _put myself back in the narrative_ ,” and the collective _squee!_ from every fangirl in the audience is entirely worth the renewed flare of cameras.

_Are you quite satisfied?_ say O’Reilly’s eyebrows; not for the first time, Alexander wishes this was “Stephen Colbert”, who would not throw away his shot at comedic glory.

“They kept me sedated,” he says quietly, “after they had resurrected me; they didn’t want my voice heard. I remember the first time I awoke —” Alexander breaks off, shaking his head. He can’t start here, can’t show that weakness—not on television. Abruptly, he thinks he understands Steve’s burden.

“An indeterminate amount of time afterwards, I awoke to the sound of blaring alarms, and the makeshift hospital room was dark. I managed to free myself and escape through the window. Clint—Clint Barton, Hawkeye—spied my flight, and Director Nick Fury pursued me while ASCENT rapid-tested blood samples my captors had taken, tentatively confirming what Tony—Mr. Stark—uncovered during one of his hacking exploits. It was immediately a doomed abscondence; Fury had a _car_.”

“I take it you didn’t make it far,” says O’Reilly.

“Actually,” says Alexander, “I made it about three miles.” The cameras _flash_

 

_– illuminates the metal sign, hanging from the fence:_

 

_private_

_property_

_N O_

_trespassing_

 

Only a fool would enter _,_ _Alexander muses._ Only a fool would follow. Should my pursuers prove to be fools, _he reasons_ , then I’ve nothing to fear.

_The fence, perhaps three fathoms high, is made of a diamond-shaped mesh somewhat reminiscent of chainmail: hand- and foot-holds are inherent to its design. Heart throbbing, he grasps the metal links and clambers towards the top, grimacing as the wire digs into his mud-crusted toes_

 

– “Please tell me you didn’t try to climb a razor-wire fence,” O’Reilly says. Then he blanches. “You _did_ realize it was razor at first glance?” 

“It was dark,” Alexander says darkly. “No. After—after, um, realizing the nature of the trap, I determined there was a fatal error in the design of this particular barrier: there was a tree on the other side, with a branch overhanging, within my reach. I had to stand near the top, balanced precariously, but I managed.” He offers a grim smile. “It might have been a rather valorous, if fundamentally teenager-ish _,_ story to tell… had I not fallen.”

 

_– the branch moans in the wind. Alexander jolts, slips, and plunges. He lands in a crouch, but his knees buckle. Sludge splashes; it sieves between his shins, then his toes as he stands in the mire. Shivering, he stumbles forward against the power of shrieking wind and sideways rain._

Like a hurricane, _he thinks, because these rags cling to his slim frame. He’s skeletally thin, helpless against the storm, and he hasn’t a clue how he ran this far._

_Lightning strikes overhead._ Like the angel of death come to claim me a second time. Like powers of Hell come to haunt me on this apparent road to perdition (for how else could death be memory?) –

_There is a barn ahead—and a clearing._

There _, Alexander decides. It is not a shameful thing to conceal oneself while crafting a plan in a foreign country. It is not cowardly._

 

“I unbarred the door,” says Alexander, “and – ”

 

_– a white creature bolted, blurring, and he whirls to see it_ : a valiant horse into the infernal night galloping, at once majestic and terrified.

 

_(“Then I was alone,” says Alexander. The cameras, the audience, and even the reporter have fallen silent, as if the reality of his loss and grief are only now dawning on them. “I closed the doors, and waited for either strategy or reckless abandon to come to me. Nick Fury found me first, which, though I thought anything but at the time, is agreeable, I suppose: the man is at once_ reckless abandon _and_ strategy _incarnate.”)_

* * *

  _Friday, September 11, 2015_

 

The water has reduced his clothes to rags and chilled him to the bone; he suppresses a shudder as the barn door squeals open on ancient hinges. A legion of footfalls squelch against the wet clay beneath them, and the deep voice of that Negro soldier echoes like the rumble of the tempest: “You can’t hide forever, General Hamilton.” 

_A foreign accent of a faraway country._

Even as his breath quivers, Alexander bristles at the implication. He isn’t ‘hiding,’ per se: he is merely outgunned and outnumbered, in want of a coherent plan. He flits his eyes back and forth at the nonsensical shapes emergent in the darkness; when his eyes have adjusted to the night, a strategy will surface somewhere between his panic and simmering questions.

“I’ve got the answers you want, Hamilton, and I’m willing to share them with you,” says the voice, and Alexander scowls even as inquiries effervesce from the void where information ought to be. “Now come quietly, or I’ll order my men to extract you from… wherever you are. Now let’s get out of here. Surely a ‘respectable’ man like you doesn’t enjoy the smell of horse-shit.”

His nose wrinkles at the reminder. Again the stench of watery excrement is overpowering. _It was significantly worse in the Caribbean,_ Alexander tells himself, but that thought brings to mind feces and bile and a heartbeat that stutters and falls silent while a grieving and delirious child struggled to reconcile reality with the unimaginable—and, suddenly, the aroma of horse-shit is bearable. 

Alexander’s mother didn’t die to see her son surrender on the basis of redolence. He has endured worse; he has thrived in worse; he’ll sooner die than vindicate Clinton’s assertion that he’s a fastidious coxcomb. 

He’s willing to wait for it.

’Tis not silence exactly: rain clangs against the metal roof, water drips from his hair and clothes to plash against the soil, water slops through wounds in the gambrel, water plops against the shit, the hay, and the muddy, shitty pulp. Insofar as it is silence, ‘tis a tense silence, where rain, silt, and sweat mingle on his brow and neck and slide like oil into the slop beneath him while fear joins the foul odors.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll just tell you, and then you’ll realize you’re being an intransigent ignoramus, and we can get out of here.” 

‘Intransigent ignoramus’ might have been an effective insult had Alexander not busied himself indexing the phrase for potential deployment against particularly myopic fools. He smirks, imagining Burr’s response to the harangue he fully intends to unleash when he sees him again –

“It’s 2015,” says the voice.

Alexander’s breath hitches.

“Two-thousand-fifteen,” the voice confirms. _“Anno Domini,_ or ‘Common Era,’ if you’re wondering. It’s been two-hundred-eleven years and two months to the day since that duel with Aaron Burr.”

_What?_

“And the little country you and Washington and Jefferson founded is now an economic and military superpower. Before you get too proud, I’ll tell you right now that the President’s a black man, and one of the major contenders for the next election is a woman,” he continues.

Alexander is certain he ought to have some sort of reaction to this information, but the words ‘it’s been two-hundred-eleven years to the day since that duel’ thunder in his ears and muffle any useful thought that might have otherwise taken place between them. There is a tone of finality to that emotionally exenterating, execrable excreta of a declaration, because if it has been two centuries, then _Eliza_ – 

He halts _that_ poisonous line of thought. 

It is quite impossible for it to have been two hundred years. He’s breathing, and his heart is pounding. He is not the corpse he ought to be in two-thousand-fifteen. Alexander won’t consider grieving his family, friends, and life, because every ounce of rationality he possesses assures him that they are alive( _—and unharmed? please, God, assure me they’re unharmed—)_  

“I’m Nick Fury,” says the man. “Director of ASCENT. Which supposedly means American Strategic Command, Emergency Neutralization Taskforce, but actually means someone wanted to spell ‘ascent.’ We’re an American organization with nay-toe”— _???—_ “affiliates dedicated to dealing with supernatural and otherwise bizarre bullshit, like Founding Fathers coming back to life, apparently. Anyway. It’s been two hours already. We’re done with this, Hamilton. We need you to come with us.”

“So that you might dispatch and rebury the unwanted ‘revenant’?” Alexander scoffs, a blazing sneer scorching the wooden wall ahead of him. He blinks twice, and discovers that his eyes are now accustomed to the dark. “I think not,” he says, distractedly— _go, go, go_ hiss his instincts. These men are treacherous liars, mayhap even treasonous scoundrels.

The rain quickens and his heart quickens with it. He always races the storm.

“If I wanted you dead, I’d leave, and then blow up the barn,” snaps Nick Fury. 

_Go, go, go, go,_ pounds his heartbeat, and its echo drowns the mounting terror that Fury’s story might be truth, but what stratagems Alexander has are impracticably fragmented; he can scarcely breathe, let alone flee.

“It’s 2015, general; we’ve got bombs that can obliterate cities. New York. Population nine million. Vaporized in an instant. Seriously. And you think that if you don’t come with us, you’re safe. Ha.”

Dread and fury coalesce and coil in his gut. His eyes sting. “If you bastards razed _my_ city – ”

“Aw, hell, no,” says Nick Fury. “Of course not. I’d never do that. This is still your nation.”

“Considering how vastly the past three decades have transmuted these lands, from colonies to sovereign states to a central democracy, ’tis probable that the ostensible intervening _centuries_ between now and the duel have likewise transformed America, and into what form I’ve not even a nascent notion,” he replies. “I’ll not take comfort in your vagaries, which I still believe to be _deception,_ and not particularly clever deception.”

Fury says, “I know you had sex with Laurens.”

Alexander jolts.

“And that your boat caught fire while you were sailing to New York. That you called your wife ‘best of wives and best of women’ in one of those letters you wrote for her right before the duel. And when you were seventeen and little Anna Maria fell ill, you kept a vigil and composed an elegy after she died. It’s all in the narrative of history.”

“This proves nothing,” he spits, and he doesn’t even flinch as he confesses. This liar has the trappings of a _habitual deceiver_ , and he has no proof; let him try. If they hang him for sodomy, Alexander frankly doesn’t give a damn.

“Same Constitution,” continues Fury. “Sixteen amendments, since the Bill of Rights. So twenty-six amendments total. And the president’s sometimes called the ‘leader of the free world,’ if that gives you an idea.”

Alexander pauses. It is easier to deceive with a bright lie than a dark one, but he finds himself asking, “You claim, then, that… if the President is a Negro, a… a ‘black’ man, you said, I would assume… has slavery been abolished?”

“Yeah,” says Fury.

_Two-hundred years._

“And women can vote. And hold public office and own businesses and all that. Basically the liberals from your day are the extreme conservatives now. Except the neo-not-see”— _???—_ “loons who resurrected you. Some of them make Jefferson look progressive. But there’s been progress.”

“I – I think I’m glad.” A quiet sort of pride swells in his chest, neither erasing nor easing the pain, but coexisting alongside it. He thinks he wants to believe this is the future.

He glances down at his hands. The thick scent of horse-shit fills his lungs, his heart thuds in his chest, and every muscle in his fingers curls with his command. His shoulder oozes blood where the wire sliced him, and his gut lurches with every clap of thunder. 

Alexander Hamilton is _alive_ ; Fury’s assertions are impossible. Even so, icy dread cuts through the humid, sweltering night and burrows into his very bones. A specter of certainty possesses him, and his emotions are too weak and turbulent to mount a counterassault.

He wants to believe this is a vision of the future, but to be part of it…

“My family is dead,” Alexander murmurs. The confession rent from his lips is like another bullet to the abdomen; he balls his hands into fists, presses one of them against closed lips to stifle a cry. He shivers, and when he exhales he expects to see fog. 

Fury clears his throat. “You can catch yourself up on American history. Maybe read the Constitution in the car, if you want.” 

“Car,” Alexander repeats to himself. He mentally reviews the list of odd devices for which he has no name, and concludes that the metal transportation-machination most fits Fury’s context. “Derived from Latin: _carrus, carrum_? Is the car the… the wheeled apparatus with which you pursued me?”

Nick Fury chortles. “Yeah, that would be a car. Or an SUV, sports-something-or-other-vehicle, if you wanna be specific, but ‘car’ is a good catch-all. Catch-all meaning ‘term for all variet ’– ”

“I presumed that,” snaps Alexander. He pauses. “First, why is it now customary to carry the text of the United States Constitution in one’s ‘car’? Is this on account of patriotism or the risk of a man having his liberties abridged when he – or she, I suppose – fails to cite to an officer the passage where his – or her rights are listed? Secondly, why do you assume I’ll comply and accompany you to that metal-monstrosity? That… _car_.” He tastes the word with its foreign accent, and it feels unwieldy in his mouth.

“Um,” says Nick Fury. “Well, I was going to give you my smartphone.” 

_Phōne –_ ‘voice’ in Greek. _Smart-voice?_

“Which is a device that will allow you to, uh, access information on almost everything. And talk to almost anyone almost instantly. And you can read the Constitution on it. I think Google has that as a thing. As to your second question? It’s a fact. You’re getting into the car and coming with us. Now.”

“If,” says Alexander, “and, understand, this is by no means a concession – if I agree… where are you taking me?”

“Well, Mr. Hamilton, we’re about to change your life,” says Nick Fury. “But you already knew that.”

“Cease equivocating and answer my question. Immediately.”

“Washington,” says Director Fury. “District of Columbia. Then New York. The Secretary of Defense has a job for you. ASCENT wants your help.”

“I fail to see my purpose in this century,” says Alexander flatly. “I have no knowledge of current policy, politics, et. al, and I sincerely doubt the government would find any expertise I could offer at present more valuable than the writings already dedicated to posterity.” 

“Really, general? Turning down a job without even asking what it entails? We really do want to hire you.”

“To play puppet to indolent, braggart politicians in want of approval from one of your nation’s first statesmen? I don’t think so.” He would sooner die than betray his ideals, to the sorcerous radicals or to the government.

“It’s about Hydra.”

Alexander stiffens. Then he leans against the water-steeped hay bale behind him, gazing up at the rafters and broken roof. “Huh,” he says, as the all-pervasive water slips off his hair and down his neck.

“Well, technically about the Ten Rings, but the Ten Rings were part of Hydra back in your day, weren’t they?” says Nick Fury. “You do know about them, right?” 

“They abducted me and fabricated my demise; Washington believed for several days that I had drowned while they attempted to ‘extract information.’ I know them well.” says Alexander, perhaps too harshly. Dizzied, he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “So they’ve returned.”

“As far as we know, they were never gone,” Fury replies. “The Mandarin, their leader, you know him – ?”

“I do.”

“– he’s planning to use some… unknown apocalyptic device within the year. Apparently Washington and some other Freemasons had information on them that’s been lost for decades. But we’ve got it now, and what we’ve got lines up with our investigation. Only problem is, we can’t decrypt the damn thing.”

“I’m not a Mason,” Alexander protests.

“No,” Fury agrees. “But you know enough ancient Masonic secrets that the Ten Rings abducted you to find them out.” 

“Ha!” His own laugh echoes almost eerily amidst the thunder. “Is that the purpose of this ploy, then, to discover secrets? If so, despicable mountebank, ask whatever you will – I’ll never betray my country.”

“Dammit, Hamilton, I was a Grand Master!” snarls Nick Fury. “But I _still_ don’t know what it says. This isn’t about Masonic secrets, it’s about American revolutionaries and your goddamned convoluted ways of keeping secrets—your fucking _secrets_ had secrets!”

In the night, something snaps in the howling wind—or maybe it’s in his mind. “Considering that many of our secrets were celestial artifacts with the potential to permanently fuck up _everything_ ,” Alexander retorts, squelching around the hay and into view before he can reconsider, “I’d consider our surreptitiousness justified, Director Fury.” 

Nick Fury raises his visible eyebrow, mouth still set in that evidently permanent frown, as he inspects Alexander and the brownish slime in his hair, on his face—everywhere. The general lifts his chin and affects haughtiness, daring Fury to mention his appearance.

Fury declines, and says, “So you’ve decided to surrender.”

“Yes. I’ve elected to ignore my sensibilities in favor of blind trust.” _Two-hundred years. Two thousand fifteen._ His heart stutters. _Eliza –_

Alexander sneers, “Am I to be your prisoner now? Or may I trust you as a man of your word?”

The man seems to recognize the words as a challenge, and narrows his eye. “Oh, I’ll keep my word,” says Nick Fury. “But if you value your life, you sure as hell won’t trust me.”

Alexander laughs shortly as he mentally records this for future reference. “Now—you had a proposition?” 

“You handled General Washington’s letters,” he says, hands clasped behind his back. “If we asked you to decrypt an unbreakable Freemason code apparently written by Washington, could you do it?”

_Say no,_ whisper the vestiges of his sensibilities. _Go, go, go._ Instead, he nods. “On a number of occasions, I pastiched Washington’s fragmented cryptograms and decoded ones sent by others. And… director. I am also _familiar_ with the esoteric magicks, from observing President Washington and my friend”— _whom I betrayed—_ “Lafayette, although I cannot hope to perform it myself – ”

“Washington had magic?!” Fury splutters.

“He was a formidable warlock!” Alexander exclaims. “One significant impetus for his joining the revolution was a desire to form a place where the arcane might be practiced in peace, without fear of retribution—I assumed historians would uncover this eventually? Or, at least, the Masons?”

“Wait ’til the anti-mutant protesters get a load of this,” Fury mutters. “Nope. First time I’ve heard of it.”

_Three may keep a secret if two are dead,_ old Franklin said; Alexander smirks as history proves him wrong. “Nevertheless, I’ve experience with the ciphers, magicks, and sigils used by the revolutionaries,” he says. “At your request, I’ll organize my information and juxtapose it against your decrypts.”

“We have an agreement, then?” says Fury.

Any agreement is a critical admission: that he concedes it has been multiple centuries since the duel; that he accepts he is alone. _I have so much work to do._ “I believe so,” he says.

“Well, then, Mr. Hamilton.” Nick Fury extends a handshake, which Alexander returns. “Welcome aboard.”

* * *

_Saturday, September 12, 2015_

 

It’s long past midnight. They stop at a Banana Republic, then at a rest stop somewhere between San Antonio and Austin. Nick is in the middle of explaining the concept and operation of a shower when Hamilton, either oblivious or indifferent to the way the director’s voice leaves silence within a certain radius, interrupts, prattles on about the invention of the first mechanical shower in England in 1767 for what feels like an eternity, and with staggering geniality demands to bring a smartphone with him so he can consult Google if the newer contraption’s manipulation is beyond his “ _considerable_ intellect.”

Nick glares for a few seconds. Maria mutters something to Clint about _unstoppable force, meet immovable object_ , and Nick turns from the driver’s seat to glare at his agents—who _should not be acting like his children_ —for a moment before blinking and proffering Hamilton his phone. “If you’ll shut up, you get the phone,” says Nick. 

Hamilton stills and takes the device.

Nick glances towards the back seat. “Maria, you have the – ”

“Yeah,” she says, handing him the rattling plastic bag with a business suit they bought at a Banana Republic at a strip-mall, which he promptly passes to Hamilton, who raises an eyebrow as he examines the grey-blue tie inside.

“Are you certain these colors—and lack thereof—are appropriate?” he asks, and Nick Fury, for once, is speechless.

“It’s less suspicious than a muddy hospital gown,” says Clint, shrugging.

“Were there a hint of violet in this bluish silver, it would enhance the prominence of my eyes,” says Hamilton testily. Then he steps out of the car and hustles off towards the rest area with a pompousness that history has, if anything, understated. 

Nick puts both hands on the steering wheel, leans back against groaning leather, and exhales the frustration like a plume of smoke. “Maria,” he drawls. “How’s the test coming?” 

“It’s at 67%, sir,” she says.

“And the preliminary results.”

“There’s no WiFi.”Nick frowns. “I can’t download them!” she exclaims. He raises an eyebrow at the outburst, and Maria blushes.

“Don’t turn into Hamilton, Maria,” says Nick.

“I won’t, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Speaking of Hamilton,” says Clint. “I’m not sure we should leave him alone.”

“He’s a Founding Father!” says Nick, glancing back at Clint. “Not a goddamn puppy.” After only an hour and a half, Nick would, in all honesty, be rather glad to say ‘bye Felicia’ to Hamilton, but he knows Clint has a point. Insufferable though he might be, the man did free and found America, and the last thing ASCENT needs is a New York Times headline reading _FOUNDING FATHER FOUND DEAD IN RIVE_ Rand—worse yet—a Blaze and/or Matt Walsh headline reading _BRIEFLY RESURRECTED FOUNDING FATHER TO ROLL OVER AGAIN IN GRAVE AFTER_ EVIL LIBERALS _FAIL TO PROTECT THE BEAUTIFUL CINNAMON ROLL_.

Joking (he’s not joking) aside, that’s the real genius of Hydra: even if they’re ever rooted out of SHIELD’s remnants completely (and Nick has an eye on Augustus Hawthorne; he knows it’s not completely), the people will never trust them again.

“The Hamiltons have been dead for two centuries,” says Clint. “But from his point of view, he just lost his whole family.”

Nick harrumphs _._ “So you’re saying I should ‘play nice’, Barton?” 

“No,” he says, sounding frustrated. “I’m saying, when bad things happen to good people, good people start to think that maybe they’re not so good and the world would be better off without them.”

_Aw, shit,_ thinks Nick, because _that_ headline would be a thousand times worse—and because, contrary to popular belief, Jiminy Cricket does sit on his shoulder, even if Fury tells him to go to hell most of the time. “You can go ogle the showering Founding Father if you want, Clint, but I’m staying here,” Nick says finally.

It’s a true testament to the nature of ASCENT’s upper echelons that Clint doesn’t even issue a _no homo_ or equivalent: he’s already leaving the car. About fifteen minutes later, Hamilton emerges, looking dapper but glum, with Clint trailing behind him. “I don’t like the color,” the Founder informs Nick once he and Barton have put their seat-belts back on. 

“But,” Hamilton says, “I do like the amendments to the Constitution.”

_Here we go,_ thinks Nick as he turns the ignition key and shifts the gears into motion.

“Are resurrections common, or, at least, precedented sufficiently that you might answer a few questions regarding it?” he asks, in lieu of the policy rant Nick expects.

Fury sees Barton lean forward, and Hamilton turns, rebelling with a little too much vigor against the constraints of his seatbelt. “Not really,” says Clint as they pull back onto the desolate, rainy highway. “But shoot, we’ll try to answer your questions.”

“Shoot?” 

“Figuratively,” says Maria. “Like rapidly firing bullets, but rapidly firing questions.”

“Huh.” Hamilton pauses, resting his elbows on the console and his chin on folded hands. “Shoot,” he echoes, trying it in an accent that for once doesn’t sound like the weirdest cross between a Carolina brogue and a ( _somehow_ smooth?) pirate-Scotsman.

“Is a reversal of aging, accompanied by accelerated healing, to be expected in the instance of a revival such as mine?” he asks. “About two decades’ worth of lines have faded from my face, and the gash in my arm is almost completely healed.”

_That’s weird,_ Fury notes. 

“The first part of that makes sense,” Clint says. “You don’t have a bullet fragment in your gut, do you?” 

“I very much doubt it.” 

“So it’s simple. The magic healed you.”

“True. It makes sense that time, far from the healer of all wounds, the innumerable ravages it inflicts might be counted among the pestilences and plagues to be cured,” says Hamilton. “Time is a disease,” he murmurs, and in the windshield reflection Fury can see this look of despondence on his face that, somehow, makes Nick feel sorry for him. 

However _young_ the poor bastard might look right now (Fury can’t quite peg the age, but he’s definitely not forty-nine or forty-seven), he’s faced that disease—tasked himself with numbering those innumerable ravages—firsthand. Nick doesn’t like feeling sorry for anyone, so as they hit a pothole disguised by black water and the car shudders beneath them, Fury tells Jiminy Cricket to go to hell.

“As to the second part of your question,” Clint interrupts (and it’s definitely an interruption, that was _meaningful silence_ ), not sounding terribly interested in these 2 a.m _._ philosophical mumblings, which is unfortunate, because 2 a.m. philosophical mumblings from an exhausted, practically drunk Founding Father might actually keep Nick awake. “Rapid healing doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t worry about it right now, we won’t know until we get you to a more advanced testing facility. I guess it could be that the magic is still wearing off and it’s keeping you in pristine condition right now.”

“In which case I presume I’ll wither into a corpse the instant this magic ‘wears off.’ No, not an _inkling_ of worry shall agitate my mind,” snarks Hamilton.

Rain sloshes down the windshield again, so Nick doesn’t take his eyes off the highway, but he hears the sound of Barton’s fingernails scratching at his scalp. “Any other ideas, Maria?” asks Clint.

“We’re running blood tests,” she replies. “We’ll know more once they’re finished.”

“Talking like an apothecary,” Hamilton mutters. “Are these ‘blood tests’ a magical or scientific method of attaining information?” 

“Scientific,” she says. “So blood has diseases in it, right? I mean, in your day, you used bloodletting, which doesn’t work—don’t give me that look, it doesn’t work – ”

“I don’t doubt you, miss,” he says. “One of my very good friends, a doctor, dismissed the practice as folly, and in large part I concurred. But I’ve been submitted to bloodletting on many occasions, and ’tis—it’s distressing to know for certain the practice was futile.”

“Anyway,” says Maria. “We can use samples of blood from people and animals to determine diseases, species, identity, that sort of thing.”

“How is one identified by blood?” asks Hamilton, voice pitching upwards in another bout of excitement. “I’m aware of many metaphors regarding a connection between _blood_ and _family_ , but how is identity scientifically discerned from blood alone?”

No one _wants_ to explain DNA to Alexander Hamilton, and no one _wants_ to explain MRIs, the internet, smartphones, corporations, globalization, or WiFi, but somehow the incessant stream of questions hammers into them harder than rain against the windshield until Clint and Maria find themselves answering and discussing, moving back and forth between questions and answers—while Fury wishes everybody except him would just _go to sleep_ so he can focus on driving through the downpour and not restraining his capital-O Opinions to maintain focus.

They meet the rest of the Avengers at the Austin airport, where Tony Stark informs them that he’s brought his private jet. From there, officials bus them to the tarmac. Although it’s decidedly more convenient, Nick has to admit he was looking forward to seeing Hamilton’s reaction to TSA security—instead, he and the airport officials are subjected to incessant questions about the function, history, and terminology of airplanes while he and Maria struggle to keep him from marveling that _man flew only a century after I died!_

Nick is the only person in the van with the good sense to not encourage Hamilton _,_ never-mind that he was the one to mention the space program and the Cold War which inevitably necessitated an explanation of World War II and Rogers’ involvement in it. The Holocaust sobers Hamilton somewhat, so at least for the last thirty seconds of their trip Nick is blessed with _freedom from idiotic questions,_ which ought to be a damn Constitutional Right.

As everyone else boards the plane, Maria gets a phone-call, and _oh, thank Heaven,_ they get to stand out in the darkness and drizzle and don’t have to listen to the next volley of questions about _how in the hell did Adolf Hitler come to power?_ and _has the Constitution succeeded in preventing fascism’s ascendancy in America?_ and _who is Donald Trump?_ , because, for Chrissakes, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since Hamilton’s resurrection and already the man is forming his _own_ Opinions that may prove detrimental to ASCENT’s efforts to keep this under wraps.

As the phone call drags on, Maria’s expression shifts from surprised, to an odd mixture of horrified and faintly amused, to unadulterated confusion, like the drizzle-filled, fuzzy-looking air has infiltrated her brain. Nick hopes that’s not the case, because the rain is picking up again, plopping atop his bald pate and sort-of sticking there in the most vexing way, like the inclement weather thinks his head is a car roof: if the rain’s responsible for Maria’s befuddlement, a train of thought which makes no sense and is wholly predicated upon the fact that he hasn’t slept all night, she’ll be speaking pig-Latin by the time the call’s over.

“Please tell me you’ve got some good news,” snaps Nick when she hangs up.

She doesn’t respond immediately, and she pales, which is quite a feat considering she’s already pallid and shivering in the wind. “I’ve got his test results,” Maria enunciates.

“Oh?” says Nick. “And what have you found out?” 

She hesitates. “Sir, he’s… sort-of Alexander Hamilton.”

“I can’t work with sort-of.”

Maria puffs a little huff. “I know, sir, but I can’t… it’s very strange,” she says, and if she keeps it up, she’ll _strain_ something trying to look mousy and not-at-all like a spitfire. “He matches up _almost_ perfectly with Hamilton, but not quite. You see, sir, he’s not exactly human.”

Nick starts. “What? Is he… is he a mutant, then?” 

“Not a mutant or inhuman either,” says Maria. “He’s a completely different species. But at the same time, he’s a match for the Founding Father. It’s like… he’s Hamilton, but if Hamilton was born _Asgardian._ ”

“Asgardian,” he drawls. Nick inhales slowly, fully intending to sigh, instead he huffs, “Fuck.”

“Yes, sir,” Maria says wryly. 

“Please tell me you’re just using Asgardian as an _example,_ ” he deadpans. When she fails to say anything in response, he groans, palming his good eye for a few exasperated seconds. “How the hell is that possible?” 

“I dunno, but they’re looking into it,” she replies.

“Any ideas?”

“Sure. Lots. He might be a brainwashed Asgardian shapeshifter, or some unlucky SOB caught in a sick experiment. Or he might be Alexander Hamilton with altered DNA from the ritual that brought him back… there _are_ traces of human DNA in the blood sample, like he might have a human ancestor, but… he’s not human himself. At least not fully, the percentage is hard to tell. Once we know for sure that he’s æsir, which, you know, would explain the fast healing and the running three miles, we’ll contact Asgard and see if they know anything about a _founder of the US_ being an _alien_.”

With that, they board the plane and take a seat far away from the front, where Tony Stark is loudly explaining Donald Trump and William Stryker while the Founding Father gazes out at the wings with an odd mixture of childlike wonder and impatience, like a little boy who’s not yet learned to take his time. “Everything is so… different now,” Fury hears Hamilton mutter when Stark finishes his harangue.

“Yeah, but like, _airplanes_ ,” says Stark, nonchalant. The plane is on the runway now, ready to take off. “Save time. So there’s lots more time to go places, see stuff, learn stuff, do things. You’ll get used to it.” 

“I know that,” snaps Hamilton, testily. “I’ll endeavor to ‘get used to it,’ and I shan’t keep you waiting long, either.” 

_Unstoppable force,_ thinks Nick, _meet immovable object._

“Cheap access to information, too,” says Stark, brandishing his phone. “If you want, you can read stuff on this. It’s called a – ”

“Smartphone, or ‘phone’ for short, regardless of the fact that ‘phone’ itself is a shortening of ‘telephone,’ derived from Greek. This one is a Starkphone Orion, 2015 series, manufactured almost entirely from recyclable materials in these United States, with an astounding 256GB of internal memory storage; I’m aware. The good director permitted my use of his phone, and in addition to the internet itself I researched phones—specifically this one. I’d like one as soon as possible.” He sounds quite pleased with himself. “I’m getting used to it,” says Hamilton brightly.

There’s a brief silence. Nick can’t see Stark’s smirk, but he _knows_ it’s there, like he has a religious belief in its existence or something.

“Cap,” says Stark.

“Yes?” groans Rogers, who still prefers iPhones. 

“Take notes. And, uh, Hamilton – ”

“Alex,” he corrects.

“Huh?”

“I’ve observed you use shortened variations on your Christian names. Steven; Steve. Anthony; Tony. I must – I’m getting used to it. Therefore: Alex. My name is Alex.” 

“Oh,” says Tony. “Okay, Alex. Maybe check out Urban Dictionary.”

(The world will never be the same.)


	2. Sandstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are fates worse than Donald Trump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Awesome, wow. Do you have a clue what happens now?_
> 
> Yes, actually! Realpolitik, bullshit, a modicum of plot, the beginning of my integration of X-Men First Class into the MCU, fake genetics, a truckload of setup, mood whiplash, and the almighty Rule of Funny reminding us that this is supposed to be pure crack.
> 
> If anyone's interested, this took longer than I expected because while I know the details of almost everything that happened on this DC trip, it took forever to decide which scenes would be most informative and evocative of the world I'm building here. I'm still not as confident in this chapter as I was in the last one… but I know Chapter 3 down to "this scene is this many words min/max and happens here", so it should be good, and should be finished soon.
> 
> Reviews appreciated!

_Saturday, September 12, 2015_

Yellow, Yellow Oval Room, and Nick might need a shrink; yellow, yellow, everywhere, he needs a fucking drink.

Maria Hill, bearing Starbucks, _clacks_ high heels into the room. Nick acknowledges her only once she sits on the awful yellow couch, which huffs a cheerful yellow puff, and passes his venti Java chip frappucino with chocolate whip and extra espresso. (He’s Nick Fury; he doesn’t give a flying fuck if anyone else thinks it’s ‘manly.’)

“How’d it go?”

Scowling, he glares at the awful yellow ceiling. “I hate yellow.”

“That bad, huh?” 

“He only made one or two horribly racist comments. He apologized. And he agreed to the job. But he had questions.” Nick glowers upwards. “I really hate yellow.”

“Huh. What’d he say that was offensive?” asks Maria, sipping her latte.

“Apparently, he’s always ‘reckoned Negroes have natural faculties probably as good as whites.’ Which he seemed to realize was offensive, and he apologized. And then he seemed a little too impressed by the President,” Nick answers. “But he had questions.”

“Racist ones?”

He shakes his head. “Horribly complex ones about the TPP, nuclear North Korea, Syrian refugees, and international geopolitics that disregarded the fact that we’re all exhausted and still have a few meetings to go. And he has _Opinions._ Secretary Fraser—Freya Fraser, she’s the Treasury Secretary?—came in and they started arguing about protectionism. He’s been back for _less than twenty-four hours_ and already he’s read enough briefs on free trade that he’s _arguing about the economy_ at _six o’clock in the morning_ , with no sleep.”

“So he had an argument,” says Maria.

Nick pauses, swirls the whipped cream, and practically inhales his frappucino. “Yeah. He did. Really caustic and abrasive, too, like being caught in an acid tornado and a sandstorm.”

“Well? Who won?” 

Nick scowls. “Fraser. Obviously. She’s been studying modern economies a lot longer than a plane ride. He had some good points, too. Mixed in with a subtly sexist attitude. But then Nat came in and, well. If he wasn’t convinced that women could run government before, he is now.”

It’s nice and all, he supposes, when bigots reform, but it’s much nicer when people aren’t stupidly and offensively prejudiced to begin with. But it wasn’t all bad. “And then he said he hoped to adjust to the new culture and asked for a hairstylist,” Nick deadpans. “Because he wants to be the Anti-Trump.”

Maria laughs, airily; exhaustedly. She tilts her head back and takes a swig of coffee, like she’s taking a shot. She gulps, and she asks: “Have you talked to McCormick yet?”

His brow furrows. “McCormick—oh, Lindsay McCormick? No. Why?”

“If he’s working for SHIELD—for ASCENT, he’s working for the Defense Department.”

“Oh.” Nick palms his good eye then rubs his temples with both hands. “No. I haven’t.”

Her eyes narrow. “How long have you been awake?”

The length of mental calculation itself speaks volumes. “About forty hours,” admits Nick. “I’m running on coffee and spite right now.” 

“I got some sleep on the plane. Even without that, I would’ve only been up for twenty-four. I’m guessing this is staying under wraps?”

“Yeah. Hamilton likes the federal government, and they know that, so I’m about ninety percent sure it’s because they want him to reappear and endorse Hillary come October. But supposedly, it’s because we don’t want him to be a target while we try to find the probably-Infinity-Stone before the Ten Rings.” 

“Want me to handle the the minutia?” asks Maria.

“Please.”

* * *

**Superwatch** @SuperNewsNetwork  
#Avengers  spotted outside President’s Guest House in DC! More at:  http://bit.ly/2cYhMAk

* * *

_Monday, September 14, 2015_

The quiet, in this old mansion, is torturous. There are altogether too many empty rooms here. Alexander imagines ghosts in the empty bedrooms, dancing dignitaries in the myriad corridors, the visages of young women playing at the piano. He’s fairly certain he liked the quiet before, but in this stately residence, so full of history, irrational fear that he might merge into the furniture plagues him, which is probably why he decided to make himself useful.

“Ms. Maximoff? Wanda?” Alexander asks softly, knocking on her door while carefully balancing the scalding cup with his other hand. “May I come in?”

He waits six breaths of sugary steam before he hears a confused, _“Tak?”_ which sounds enough like an affirmative for him. He creaks the door open and slips inside. Wanda stirs, squinting and shielding herself from the thin shaft of light that falls across her bedspread.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” says Alexander. “Ms. Romanoff—Natasha—relayed to me that though you strove for sleep, this violent headache rebuffed these efforts and tormented you throughout the night.”

Confusion knits her brow for a moment, then she says with a bleary nod, “Yes, I could not sleep.”

Mutual grief is a dangerous thing for a less experienced psychic. When she attempted to confirm his identity Saturday, it backfired. He recovered swiftly enough, at least from any psychic trauma, that Vision felt confident examining his mind—Alexander still shudders to remember the feeling of that _automaton_ inside his mind—but her headache endured throughout the night and worsened throughout Sunday until, in the afternoon, she lay down, and she hasn’t risen since.

The question lingers: if he remembers, vaguely now, the strange agony of being someone else—someone else already experiencing another’s life and death—in a foreign memory, does Wanda remember Philip, dying in his arms?

He distracts himself as he always does: with words. “The other Avengers and Nick Fury are _en route_ to a meeting with Lindsay McCormick, where their intention is to discuss the problem which is embodied in _Alexander Hamilton,_ in modernity as in antiquity, clarify misunderstandings which have arisen in previous missions, and – ”

Alexander halts his words and ceases his pointless pacing. “I brought tea.” He rests the mug on her nightstand.

“Oh. Thank you.” She attempts to sit up, but when she sways and almost topples, he kneels beside her bedside and sets the cup in her hands. “What tea is this?” she asks.

“Um. Chamomile and ginger mixed with honey.”

Wanda sips it. “Very sweet.”

“I admit the ratio of honey to tea is perhaps unpalatable. This is to disguise the taste of, um, cayenne pepper.” At her expression, he adds, “It’s a natural painkiller, not a prank. But I’ll steep something less cloying, if you want.”

“No. It’s very sweet that you brought me tea. And the tea’s _very good_.”

“Oh. I’m glad, though I assumed t’would be too sugary. Has ‘t’would’faded from the English vernacular? I presume so, from your expression. Pity, t’was a good word. And regarding the honey, perhaps the modern palate’s stranger than I imagined. I’ll adapt—Exhibit A of my adaptation being that I quite enjoyed the Starbucks frappucino after that first affronting sip and—and I’m not soothing your migraine with this chatter.”

Wanda shakes her head.

“The telepathic consultant—Charles Xavier—will arrive in about four hours, I believe for the genetic testing,” he informs her. “Might his talents soothe the pain?”

“No. Psychic trauma. Any telepathy would make it worse. Believe me. Vision tried.” She sips her tea. “But thank you for the tea.”

“I’m glad to help in any way I can.” Alexander smiles and retreats downstairs to the dining room, where staff chefs have prepared a frankly overwhelming amount of food, as evidenced by the fact that any of it remains after being raided by the Avengers. 

He spends a few minutes exchanging pleasantries with Maria, but their discussion quickly devolves into a firestorm of impassioned harangues and mutual rage about pollution and climate change. Midway through his eggs, Alexander grabs a stack of paper-napkins and outlines an essay, half from words spoken in the conversation and half from words churning behind his eyes, branding themselves into his brain, and demanding to be spoken.

After a quarter hour, Maria informs him that she needs to retrieve Charles Xavier and Darcy Lewis, saying as she rinses her plate, “The DOD thought it’d be good for secrecy if I drove them.”

“Then why are we staying at the President’s Guest House?—and with _two chefs,_ no less.”

“We dismissed most of the staff for the weeke—” 

“The entirety of Twitter already knows where we are,” Alexander interrupts.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” she says. “And how do you even know Twitter?” 

“I… um, in the dearth of legally available _Hamilton_ recordings beyond the performance at the White House, which Sam showed me, I may have taken to—I think the word’s _stalking_ Mr. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s various social media accounts until the release of the cast album,” he admits. “And yes, really.”

“Dammit.”

“Indeed.” 

Alexander returns to his essay outline, noting the myriad gaps in his knowledge which must be filled, while Maria strolls across the kitchen to collect her purse from the table. She sighs. “I’ll see if Tony’ll book a hotel, we really need to keep you—hey! Are you listening?”

He meets her eyes with a smile.

She leans across the table. “We need you to stay _secret,_ Hamilton. You are going to stay in this house until we finish forging an identity. That’s an order. Understand?”

He laces his fingers across his essay. “Perfectly,” says Alexander primly.

* * *

**The New York Times** @nytimes  
Breaking News: Tony Abbott is ousted as Australia’s prime minister

**Fox News** @FoxNews  
. @Will_St_Ryker  to deliver speech on metahuman registration as mutant riots in Dallas continue  bit.ly/2cYgM34

**William Stryker** @Will_St_Ryker  
These violent demonstrations by unregistered mutants in Dallas prove need for unity, leadership, & security. We must reclaim  #AmericaForUS .

Charles Xavier Retweeted  
**Raven Darkholme** @Hi_Im_Raven  
@Will_St_Ryker’s anti-mutant, anti-gay, anti-immigrant rhetoric is disgraceful & unAmerican. See my @nytimes article here: http://bit.ly/2cXhZAk

**Donald J. Trump** @realDonaldTrump  
The situation in Dallas is tragic. We must come together to  #MakeAmericaGreatAgain .

**CNN Politics** @CNNPolitics  
Prominent mutant- and LGBT-activist Raven Darkholme to William Stryker: “You are the enemy of the American dream”  
http://cnn.it/2zi76cV

* * *

Alexander spends the remainder of his morning on Steve’s lap-top in the library, studying a Youtube history series with a notebook in his lap and a pile of books on American history, which has gradually dwindled as he watches, beside him.

He also has a venti Starbucks green tea frappucino on the coffee table, purchased from the excess cash left over from the $20 bill Tony gave him to purchase a drink yesterday. It wasn’t a risk, truly: the Starbucks is less than a quarter hour’s walk away, and, more importantly, nobody needs to know. Every sip is worth his _entirely_ harmless rebellion.

In the last few minutes of the penultimate video and on the final pages of _A People’s History of the United States,_ which is biased, but FRIDAY has divided the screen in half between the video and a Chrome search for fact-checking purposes, a haunting piano melody pierces through his headphones—and a strangled cry sounds from the kitchen.

His hands ball into fists— _step one: analyze surroundings and determine immediacy of threat; step two: determine strategic advantages; step three: triage and eliminate threats according to order of magnitude_ —but when peril fails to present itself and laughter proceeds instead, Alexander frowns, sets aside the book, and follows the sound.

“Oh my God, Wanda, you can’t just, like, play creepy piano music like that when everybody thinks no one else is in the house,” a woman’s voice echoes. “Or at least that the only other person in the house is having a migraine, how are you by the way?”

“I’m feeling much better,” Wanda replies. “And I’ll try not to scare you with ‘creepy’ music in the future?”

Alexander presses into the dining room. A dark haired, curvaceous woman greets Wanda, while Maria sits at the head of a kitchen table, and a youthful man of boyish, almost epicene beauty sits at her right hand.

_Charles Xavier_ _and Darcy Lewis,_ Alexander remembers. _The ASCENT consultant and "the world's most laid-back PR agent_. _"_

“Oh, hi. Who’re you?” blurts Darcy Lewis.

“That’s impossible,” Charles Xavier breathes.

“Which is why you’re here,” Maria tells the telepath. “The DNA tests were… weird. We want you to look over them.”

Alexander frowns. If these ‘DNA tests’ are as reliable as Maria earlier postulated, then there oughtn’t be a reason for further analysis, for he _is_ Hamilton, and the loons who resurrected him seemed not nefarious, clever, or scheming enough to sabotage his escape with a false-negative.

“Why do you need genetic testing, though? It’s obvious,” says Darcy. “Anyone can see he’s Charles’ secret brother.”

“What?!” they chorus.

“He’s _not_ my – ”

“– a chronological _impossibility_ – ”

“ – what were you _thinking_ – ”

“ – such _unfounded_ conclusions as – ”

“– actually, I know _what_ , but _why_ would you – ”

“Okay, so there goes that cliché,” says Darcy, folding her arms. “Sorry, but when you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you start to realize that the more predictable a plot twist is, the more likely it is to happen in real life. Kinda like Ockham’s razor, but in reverse, and only applying to actual superheroes.”

Alexander huffs. “Assuming instantly that someone is someone else’s ‘secret brother,’ particularly when the two people bear no resemblance to each other, might actually be the opposite of Ockham’s razor.” 

“That’s why I said ‘but in reverse,’” says Darcy.

“That doesn’t make sense,” says Maria.

“That doesn’t seem to make sense in your own mind?” says Charles.

“Although you do look alike?” Wanda offers.

“No we don’t,” they say.

“So now that we know _that_ ,” says Darcy, “can you tell the non-telepathic, non-Avengers, non-Maria among us who you are?”

“She’ll need to know,” Maria says, shrugging. “Tony flew her here to teach you pop culture. You might as well tell her now.”

“Okay,” he says, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t given him permission. When it was rebellion against the idiotic policies of people who haven’t earned his respect, it would have been thrilling, but now it feels humdrum to say: “Um. Yes. Alexander Hamilton.” 

Darcy gapes.

Alexander, malcontent with said humdrum introduction, continues, “My name is Alexander Hamilton.” He beams, and then sing-songs, _“And there’s a million things I – ”_

“Oh my _God!”_ Darcy shrieks. Her advance is swifter and, if internet observations on certain actions of fangirls are to be believed, more menacing than a British battalion. “You—you’ve seen your musical?! How?! How’d you get tickets?! Like, without Tony I never would’ve, so how—wait, no, that’s a stupid question, you’re dead, but now you’re not dead, how are you not dead?! Wait. Are you dead. Are ghosts a thing now.” 

Eyes rounder than the White House rotunda, she pokes his chest.

Alexander quirks an eyebrow.

Darcy says, “Holy shit.”

“It’s odd,” he muses, “that the modern vernacular retains a vestige of the original practice of swearing, or at least the form of ‘holy-object!’, where in large part the sacrilegious has been supplanted by the obscene in terms of expletives. ‘Holy shit!’—it’s not only oxymoronic, but more anachronistic than me on a Starkphone, and just as real.”

“You’re at least as talkative as I thought, and you’re not dead,” says Darcy. “Holy _shit_. Like. Um. See, I majored in political science, and I’ve read _The Federalist Papers_ , and I saw the musical, and you’re, like, my favorite historical person ever, so I’m really glad to meet you, and yeah, um, I’m Darcy. Darcy Lewis.” She waves awkwardly. “Hi?”

“Hi,” says Alexander Hamilton. He waves equally awkwardly.

“Okay.” Darcy runs fingers through her hair, which only serves to dishevel it further. “So. Um. It’s great that you’re not dead, really. But how are you not dead.”

He shrugs. “An indeterminable mixture of magic and science, is the ‘buzz-word’, or ‘buzz-phrase’, more accurately, which ASCENT used. I’ve been told it’s a euphemism for ‘supernatural bullshit.’” Alexander pauses. “I’m not dead because supernatural bullshit.”

“Well that’s descriptive,” snarks Darcy.

“If you’ve six and a half hours, I could tell half of it.”

Darcy says, “Uhm.”

“We don’t have time for that,” says Maria, rising from her chair. “Mr. Hamilton, Professor Xavier, get ready, we’re leaving for the hospital for Hamilton’s physical in twenty minutes.Professor, you can look at the genetic test results while we’re there. Darcy, get a pop culture curriculum prepared – ”

“Yes ma’am,” says a grinning Darcy.

“And Wanda,” says Maria, softening, but only slightly. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but maybe get some rest. If anyone has extra time, start packing. Tony booked us a hotel to avoid attracting more attention.” Then: “Dismissed.”

No one questions her.

The physical examination, as unpleasant as expected, is mostly spent marveling over the fact that the doctor’s parents actually named him _Aaron Burr_. The man is fair-haired, green eyed, and bumbling, resembling perhaps every man and woman who has ever lived before Burr, especially as he confesses that while he’s never been more embarrassed by his family’s ignorance of history, “My parents are even crueler than you think. Aaron’s my middle name. I go by Aaron Burr because it’s _somehow_ better than _Beaufort_ Burr.”

“My condolences,” Alexander tells Dr. Burr, hoping that if he can assure this man he bears no ill-will against people named after his murderer, the man will hold the _exceptionally pointy_ needle still while collecting blood.

Numerous physical tests, blood tests, immunizations, and a discussion of the history and effectiveness of vaccines later, Dr. Burr tells Alexander what he already knows: “Well, except for the rapid healing, an indeterminable mixture of magic and science as far as I can tell, you’re malnourished, which is from living on IVs without enough nutritional supplements for God-knows-how-long, and you’re physically a human thirty-year-old male.”

What he wants to hear: “You can eat as much as you want for the next several weeks.”

What he doesn’t want to hear: “But that doesn’t mean you can eat whatever you want.” 

What he was dreading: “I’m going to develop a dieting and exercise plan for you, which I expect you to follow religiously.” 

Next is the instruction on toothbrushing and flossing, the latter of which Tony has already assured Alexander he can ignore.

“Well, that’s it,” says Dr. Burr, once the Founder has managed to hold a toothbrush correctly, “unless you’ve changed your mind and want me to show you how to use a – ”

“That’s quite alright, doctor,” Alexander cuts in through a muffling mouthful of toothpaste.

The awfulness of the physical examination pales in comparison to the mere _anticipation_ of the psychiatric one, which Maria failed to tell him about until immediately beforehand, rendering him entirely bereft of psychiatric information and thus defenseless before his doctor’s knowledgeability should the matter of his treatment come to a debate. 

Previously said anticipation lasts considerably longer than Alexander thinks it ought to. He sits on a couch in an empty, cheery room. The clock ticks one, five, ten minutes past his appointment. Though at first bored, he is almost grateful. He researches psychology, psychiatry, and the work of his psychobiographers while he waits, cross-referencing with his psychiatrist’s reviews to determine the medications she might attempt to prescribe.

Alexander prefers productivity to idleness, but soon, it seems, his research turns accusatory:

_Major depression._

_Hypomania._

_Manic-depressive._

“My mind is not diseased,” Alexander hisses at the internet as the door, at long last, squeaks open.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton,” says Dr. Izabella Kwan. An elderly, kind-faced woman with oriental and Spanish heritage and distractingly red lipstick, she smiles at Alexander with all the empathy in the world and asks, “How are you, dear?”

Empathy, Alexander decides, under her terrifyingly warm stare, is considerably more difficult to deal with than apathy. 

* * *

Bernie Sanders Retweeted  
**Steve Rogers** @RealCaptainAmerica  
Met @BernieSanders with @Iron_Man today at a coffee shop! #FeelTheBern instagram.com/tg44Esh86O

**Sean Hannity** @seanhannity  
NEXT on  #Hannity :  @MelaniMcBride  to weigh in on how liberals twisted Captain America to fit their narrative.

* * *

“Professor,” drawls Nick. “What’ve you learned?”

Xavier hesitates. “Psychically, genetically, in every way I’ve tested, he’s Hamilton. But you weren’t wrong. It’s difficult to tell without having a ‘pure’ baseline, but I think… one of his parents wasn’t human. And I think the ritual that brought him back activated some of that, just as stress activates the X-gene. Considering the malnutrition, it seems that’s the only reason he can _walk_ without labor.” He pauses, glancing down at the results. “I’d like to take a sample back to New York, if that’s alright.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse to not get another sub?” asks Nick.

“I won’t say I _wouldn’t_ like to explain the very important research assignment to my students,” Xavier answers. “But I need _my_ lab. And I need to make sure this altered DNA is even stable—that he won’t die within weeks of a genetic disorder, or an autoimmune disease. I need more time.”

* * *

**Tony Stark** @Iron_Man  
What they’re not telling you is that after the selfie Bernie spilled his hot coffee on me.  
Guess I  #FeelTheBern

> **Steve Rogers** @RealCaptainAmerica  
>  Met @BernieSanders with @Iron_Man today at a coffee shop! instagram.com/tg44Esh86O

* * *

_Thursday, September 17, 2015_

When Steve checks the West Wing Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons Georgetown, which has rapidly become the Avengers’ and Avengers’ associates’ hangout since practicality and a need for secrecy kicked them out of the more convenient Blair House that slept them all at once, Alexander Hamilton and Tony Stark appear to be in a competition for an award in restlessness.

It’s evening—the apparently exhausting trip to the CIA for forged papers and a crash course in driving is over—and Alexander Hamilton’s blizzard of movement has dimmed but not abated entirely. Even as he settles on the couch with a Stark Tablet, he’s moving, fingers tracing words on the condensation of his frappucino when he isn’t scrawling on a notepad. His eyes abrade the electronic page with speed and intensity that might kindle flame if the page was paper.

Tony Stark, meanwhile, has had an Idea. Steve knows this because a floor is not typically covered in no less than a hundred dozen crumpled sheets of paper, and rooms are not usually crowded with a hundred thousand tumbling, shifting, merging holograms projected from one of Tony’s experimental portable holoprojectors. A beer in one hand and a twirling pencil in the other, Tony is pacing, scribbling, gesticulating wildly in a way that shifts the holograms, and raving about –

“NAFTA?” Steve gapes. Alexander Hamilton shoots a death-glare at Captain America (Steve is never going to get used to that) for the interruption.

Darcy, who is on her laptop, absorbed in a bag of potato chips and probably whatever ‘Tumbler’ is, gazes at Steve with the sort of pity one has for an unworldly puppy who has attempted to walk through a window. Darcy mouths, “Don’t.” 

“Yeah, NAFTA,” says Tony, looking up from a blueprint of a structure labeled _Launchable Mars Habitat._ He adds, “Secretary Fraser—she’s cool usually, one of the few women who’s resisted my roguish charms, turned me down maybe a month pre-Afghanistan—and her deputy, I think his name is Smith—slimy little guy, and shorter than both of us—see? I don’t have a height complex—are giving me and Alex and Darcy and maybe Maria a tour of DC tomorrow. Because impressing their Founder is more important than running an economy, apparently. Alex wants to win the protectionism argument. You can come if you want, I’ll prolly enter in on one side or another depending on who’s losing. It’ll be epic.”

Tony pauses, strolling to a particularly large hologram reminiscent of the International Space Station to scribble a calculation with his index finger. “Okay, looks we need another SRB to get the HAB airborne, FRIDAY, is that gonna work?” 

“Sorry, boss,” says FRIDAY. “That exceeds the number of rockets geometry allows with current designs.”

“Dammit,” Tony snarls. “Anyway. Alex wants to win and he’s trying some new arguments out against me, because if he can beat me, he can beat anybody.”

Hamilton adds in a rush, “While it seems to me probable these United States’ prosperity—and indeed, the post-war economic miracle of Japan and many other states—is attributable to the protectionism established in the American School, the moral and environmental argument may be more effective in combating Fraser’s idealistic but myopic unilateralism. Reducing tariffs on Chinese products, for instance, would encourage Americans to purchase cheap devices whose construction _poisoned_ the drinking water of villages with carcinogens, which from etymology I presume is a pestilential particle causing cancer; therefore unilateral free trade with China would be an awful spectacle, endorsing of _immoral_ practices and befouling this Earth for our posterity; and protectionism is rendered a moral and _scientific_ imperative. Also, speaking of science-y things, what’s an electron shell?”

Against his better judgement, Steve decides to leave Alexander Hamilton, Darcy Lewis, and Tony Stark without supervision. After swinging by the kitchen to mix Natasha her promised Dr.-Pepper-and-bourbon and crushed-not-cubed ice in a Solo cup, Steve heads to the balcony to watch her hack the Pentagon.

She’s hunched over on a wicker couch, glaring at her laptop. “I’m in,” she says quietly, peering up over the top of the computer to meet his eyes.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Steve says as her assassin’s gaze snaps to the cocktail.

“ _But_ ,” says Natasha. She jabs a seemingly random set of keys with speed and anger that would break the keyboard if Captain America tried to replicate it. “I haven’t found anything they haven’t told us.” 

Steve frowns. “There has to be something. I _know_ Fury knows something – ”

She slams the laptop shut, stands, and swipes the much-needed alcohol from his hand. “Possibly an assassination in L.A., but it didn’t seem like the Winter Soldier’s style. And there was a man with a silver arm reported in Rio two days ago.”

“I should go after him,” says Steve.

“There’s no video evidence.”

“You think it’s a hoax?” 

“I think it could be. Personally, I think you should wait.” 

“For what?” asks Steve.

There is a loud clamor from the behind the glass to the living room. Already, someone appears to have said something intellectually stupid (which is not an oxymoron to anyone who has lived for any period of time with both Stark and Banner), and crumpled pieces of paper are flying at heads.

“If I’m right, they keep most records about the Winter Soldier on paper. They know you’re looking for him.” Natasha adds dryly, “And by now they know they can’t stop Russian hackers.”

“You’re planning a break-in.”

Natasha shrugs. “Now that we’re done with meetings, Clint’s heading to L.A. with Sam, Rhodey, and Wanda to check out a possible supervillain wannabe. I won’t have anyone to watch my back. You owe me, Cap.”

“This is supremely inadvisable,” states a calm, British voice. Vision levitates from beneath the balcony to above it, golden cape fluttering in the wind, gleaming in the sunset, and he lands gracefully beside them. “As well, hacking the Pentagon in pursuit of a phantom seems… misguided—and emotionally driven.” Those piercing blue eyes meet Steve’s with disapproval.

It cuts—and deeply—when something as innocent and young as Vision levels an accusation against you. 

But Bucky is his friend. Steve won’t abandon him so easily.

Natasha replies, “I won’t get caught.”

“You don’t think it matters, then,” says Vision kindly, without the slightest trace of malice or hint of inquiry. “So long as no one thinks badly of you, you don’t believe there is moral culpability for what you do in the dark.”

“V,” she says. “They’re lying to us.”

“And your solution,” observes Vision, “is to thieve from liars. Just as some murder thieves.” 

Steve clenches his jaw. Vision says, “Fascinating. We truly are dangerous people. ” With that, the android joins the fray of paper-throwing, highly distinguished intellectuals inside.

* * *

**Fox News** @FoxNews  
For third night, mutant protests turn violent in Dallas. fxn.ws/2xfiiKG 

**CNN Breaking News** @cnnbrk  
7 mutant protesters gunned down by Dallas police; 2 dead, 5 in critical condition. Mutants were violent, officials claim. http://cnn.it/2dfvK1c 

**Hillary Clinton** @HillaryClinton  
The reports from Dallas are heartbreaking. My prayers are with the families, the city, and our nation.-H

**Betty O’Brian** @BettyOBrian  
ONCE AGAIN the mainstream media is twisting facts to suit their anti-police narrative. Absolutely disgusting  #AmericaForUS

**Donald Trump** @realDonaldTrump  
The situation in Dallas is tragic. We must come together to make America safe and  #MakeAmericaGreatAgain .

Charles Xavier Retweeted  
**Raven Darkholme** @Hi_Im_Raven  
Thoughts and prayers are with Dallas tonight. Now is the time to unify against violence.

**William Stryker** @Will_St_Ryker  
5 terrorists receiving free healthcare.   
Hardworking citizens left endangered & in poverty.   
That isn’t morality; it’s indefensible.  
#AmericaForUS.

* * *

_Friday, September 18, 2015_

After agreeing to meet Natasha at the Pentagon and ensure security doesn’t see her, Steve accompanies Tony, Darcy, Vision, and Hamilton to the rendezvous with Freya Fraser and Sebastian Smith, but the promised lively debate is subdued, at least contrasted against the hysteria when Hamilton vanishes from the Secret Service’s view for a few minutes to purchase a Starbucks coffee, and especially compared to the explosion over mutant rights.

Hamilton hardly seems to notice his towering marble statue in the Great Rotunda between his and Tony’s—and Steve’s, for that matter—unadulterated rage at the obvious violation of the Constitution (Steve says: “this isn’t supposed to be the 1940s anymore; discrimination’s been ruled unconstitutional, this needs to stop!”), Fraser’s restrained response (Tony rants: “look, you’re already crusading to close the wage gap—is it really too much to ask for you to give a _human_ response to a _human fucking rights violation_ in the _land of the fucking free?!”_ ), and Smith’s complete lack of a response (Hamilton snarls: “you amoral, asinine, anti-charismatic Machiavellian moneymonger of a national embarrassment—and truly, you ought to be embarrassed that a man from, ah, my place of origin has surpassed you in liberality—those who stand for nothing fall for _anything_ , and – !”).

And a very British-sounding tourist interrupts Hamilton’s diatribe with a popped bubblegum bubble and a smug “You _do_ know Alexander Hamilton never said that, right?” before strutting away without another word.

Hamilton, flushed enough to conceivably explode, starts after the tourist – 

Steve claps a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Hamilton glances up to the captain, his honest-to-God amethyst eyes catching Steve’s blue and lingering. “Sorry,” says Hamilton, with geniality but not a lot of sincerity. Then he breaks eye-contact and smirks to himself like he’s made a discovery.

Darcy takes the opportunity to snap a selfie of Hamilton and Captain America in front of the Hamilton statue, with the Apotheosis of Washington above them. Tony photobombs, Vision looks confused, and Fraser and Smith keep a surprising amount of composure for two people who’ve just been reamed out by an American icon, another American icon—or more specifically a protean, notoriously arrogant philandering aristocrat—and… well, another protean, notoriously arrogant philandering aristocrat.

“We do care about mutant rights,” says Fraser eventually, syllables clipped, hands clasped behind her back. “Mutant rights are human rights.”

“But,” adds Smith, “the FBI has yet to conclude – ”

“The victims were unarmed,” Vision interjects, “and while they indeed destroyed _property_ , as I understand vandals do not receive capital punishment in this nation, least of all without a trial by jury. It was a summary execution. It was wrong. That should be the end of this discussion.”

“Yes. It should be,” says Smith, sleeve rolled up to reveal an expensive-looking watch. He pauses to tap the glass face for several seconds, leaving the conversational silence and juxtaposed din of busied tourists to heighten their anticipation of, perhaps, a confession of actual human emotion. Then he says, “We are _behind schedule_. We need to be heading to the Pentagon.”

With that, Smith and Fraser march away.

Tony huffs. He grumbles, “Dude should know he done fucked up – "

"Language!" Steve exclaims.

" – when Captain _'frigging’_ America and a _'gosh-darn'_  Found– "

"Language," warns Darcy. Hamilton, not one to conceal qualms with concealment, glowers at her.

" – are both pissed at him,” finishes Tony as they follow their guides.

“Is the Pentagon worth visiting?” asks Hamilton, and Steve feels as though he’s swallowed a rock. Natasha needs him to knock out the cameras if this is going to work. The tech to do it feels like molten lead in his pocket, like it might burn a hole in his thigh.

Hamilton continues, “I’d frankly prefer John Adams as a tour guide.” 

“Wow,” says Darcy.

Tony shrugs. “I mean, we saw it yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, so if you don’t want to – ”

“I’d like to see it,” Steve says quickly.

“Forgotten it already, old man?” teases Tony.

_There is no way in hell I could pick up Thor’s hammer if I lie,_ thinks one half of Steve.

_Bucky,_ insists the other.

He thinks of his friend, tortured and mutilated at the hands of Hydra. Vengeance surges in his gut. Bile rises in his throat.

Heart pounding, conscience roiling, beneath Washington’s Apotheosis and under Vision’s cold, calculating, and horrifically benevolent stare, for the express purpose of betraying his government, Captain America lies: “I’d just like to see it, for once, as a tourist, not an Avenger.”

Stark and Hamilton are more than happy to continue arguing with Fraser and Smith. Darcy snaps a few selfies, for which Hamilton is surprisingly eager to pose. Vision doesn’t drag Steve to Hell.

The mission goes off without a hitch: at eleven o’clock sharp, Steve talks his way into the surveillance room, where he signs autographs for the guards and, when the spy nods at him in the video, surreptitiously activates the device Natasha gave him, erasing her image from the record. Five minutes later, he attempts to leave, and five minutes after that, he and Darcy peel a bickering quartet off each other and back into the hallway.

Then Natasha greets the group casually, embarrassedly, admitting: “I thought I lost my phone here yesterday, but it turns out it must have gotten lost at the hotel.” 

“Cool, I can get you a new one if you can’t find the old one,” says Tony. “Or even if you can. I’m almost done with the Starkphone Nebula, it’s going to be completely awesome. Much better than an iPhone. Apple’s stupid. Stupid enough to take off the power button. Stupid enough to take off the headphone jack.”

"That would be absurd," says Hamilton.

Tony’s twenty-minute rant on the marvel of technology which is the new Starkphone provides the perfect opportunity for Natasha to relay to Steve eight words in blinked morse code:

_RioNowDubaiMondayNATOAmbush._ A pause. _Execution._

Which settles it: Steve will pursue Bucky.

That evening, after a photoshoot with Captain America, Alexander Hamilton, and the President, resulting in a picture which according to Darcy has “enough Eagleland in it to like, destroy North Korea or something,” Steve packs and tells the others he feels an obligation to speak at the upcoming New York rally and remind the nation that he is, strictly speaking, an artificially created _mutant_ —and that it hasn’t dimmed his patriotism. 

He’ll board the plane to Dubai afterwards.

The day might have ended on a high note, had there not been the murder of an African-American mutant in Baton Rouge to consider. Everyone—including the Avengers not physically present: Tony gathers them in a conference call which largely consists of Sam and Natasha railing against the Alt-Right movement—collectively fumes in front of the news that night while Black Lives Matter, Mutant Lives Matter, and All Lives Matter take to the streets across the nation. 

At around midnight, Tony switches off the TV and says to the collective gasp, “What? It started repeating and you have the internet. You guys’re coming back tomorrow, right?” 

“Assuming there isn’t another crisis, yeah,” says Rhodey over the call.

“So let’s do something tomorrow,” says Tony. “It’ll be Saturday night. FRIDAY, any ideas?” 

FRIDAY hums from every Stark device in the room. “There’s a live music venue and restaurant with high ratings, near the Treasury and called The Hamilton. Is that ironic enough, boss?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow night, Tony,” says Steve.

“Okay,” says Tony. “Tomorrow afternoon, we do a pre-thing thing.”

* * *

**CNN** @CNN  
NY mutants plan rally; Columbia professor, telepath Charles Xavier and war hero Steve Rogers among keynote speakers.  
http://cnn.it/2dfvK1c

* * *

_Saturday, September 19, 2015_

“In analyzing modern culture, through Ms. Lewis’s—Darcy’s—instruction, I’ve become accustomed to phones, Steve,” says Hamilton, with whom he and Tony are out shopping because apparently, if the Avengers plus their guest are going out for drinks tonight, he’s unhappy with the ‘boring’ clothes and colors ASCENT has provided for him.

“This is an iPhone. I don’t know if you know how to use it,” says Steve, switching from _I Will Always Love You_ to the far more appropriate _Song of the Volga Boatmen_.

Tony slams his fist on the steering wheel. “Shit, Steve – ”

“Language!” Steve says.

“This is the fifth _fucking_ time you’ve changed songs—changed genres —changed _decades_ in the middle of a song,” Tony complains. “Stop that. This is a _Ferrari._ And not only a _Ferrari,_ it’s a Ferrari with the brand new StarkSound system. I want to hear how awesome and/or phenomenal it sounds before I decide whether or not it can go on the market.”

He switches to _My Heart Will Go On_. “So shouldn’t I play more songs? So we can tell whether or not the system works?”

“We need to be introducing Alex here to _music_ ,” says Tony. “Steve. Give me the shitphone – ”

“iPhone,” says Steve.

“Shitphone.”

“ _i_ Phone.”

“ _Shit_ phone.” 

“See, Tony, that’s part of the problem,” says Steve. “I don’t trust your taste in music.”

“Because you’re afraid of a few ‘bad words,’” says Tony as they squeal to a halt at a red light.

“Actually,” says a smirking Alexander Hamilton (it doesn’t matter how many times Steve thinks it, it’s not getting any less weird) as he turns from the passenger seat to face Steve, “in operating phones, I’ve also become acquainted with modern music, and I believe I know a song appropriate for this occasion.”

“But – ”

“Cap,” says Tony seriously, making eye-contact with Steve in the rearview mirror. “Let the Founding Father have the shitphone.” 

Captain America hands Alexander Hamilton the iPhone (which, Steve decides, is objectively ludicrous). At least, Steve supposes, Hamilton is likely to have a more palatable taste in music—classical, perhaps Scotch-Irish folk, the latter of which Steve is familiar with himself.

Hamilton smirks. “Is GooglePlay an acceptable alternative to shitiTunes?”

“Oh my God, I’m so using that,” says Tony as the light turns green. “ShitiPhone. ShitiTunes. And yeah, Google’s cool, really anything, as long as it’s not Apple.”

“Excellent,” says Hamilton, who hunches over in his seat to peer down at the screen like the phone is an immovable desk. “Ah, here it is!”

_“Hey Macklemore, can we go thrift-shopping?”_

“Oh, yeah,” says Tony. “Who introduced you to hip-hop?”

Steve’s mouth falls open. _What?_

_“What, what, what, what?”_ the song echoes.

Hamilton is still smirking, a positively wicked gleam in his eyes. “In searching for modern covers of songs familiar to me, I discovered Ed Sheeran’s _The Parting Glass_ —and Ed Sheeran himself. He’s the among the best twenty-first century musicians I’ve encountered thus far, and I particularly enjoyed _Sing_ , _Don’t_ , and _Take It Back_ , which Darcy referred to as ‘kinda like rap.’ At my request, she recommended Macklemore, Big Pun, and Eminem, among others. Also, I wished to familiarize myself with hip-hop prior to the release of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Broadway cast recording, in which I’m the titular character.”

_“I’m gonna pop some tags_

_“Only got twenty dollars in my pocket_

_“I - I - I’m hunting, looking for a come-up_

_“This is fucking awesome.”_

Steve—who is absolutely certain there is nothing weirder than Iron Man and a Founding Father jamming and rapping along to a vulgar not-song—groans, but refrains from comment until the chorus, when he demands, “What song even _is_ this?” 

“Darude, Sandstorm,” answers Hamilton seriously. 

Steve has to ask why Tony can’t stop laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truefax:  
> • Characterization: Historical!Hamilton turned into a pile of coddling goo around sick people. Said his family doctor:  
> "[Hamilton] devoted himself most assiduously to the care of his son, administering with his own hand every dose of medicine or cup of nourishment that was required. I may add that this was his custom in every important case of sickness that occurred in his family.” The doctor also notes an almost maternal level of concern. I can see a hint of that in Dear Theodosia, so I thought I should carry it through.  
> • Politics: Hamilton's free-trade rant was based on old debate brief and actual Hamiltonian economics. It's true that Chinese solar panels are made in such a way that it kills workers and other people in the area, sadly.  
> • Miscellaneous: Hamilton and McAvoy do look alike (very similar eyes, face shape), based on what is said to be the most accurate portrait of Hamilton: http://imgur.com/a/c66AT … not that that would really change Darcy's assumption.
> 
> Fakefax:  
> • Science: Genetics doesn’t work this way. But genetics also doesn’t create mutants with psychic powers and it advances the Plot, so I’m cool with that.  
> • Politics: Freya Fraser, Sebastian Smith, and Lindsay McCormick aren’t real, but I wanted OCs for the freedom that comes with it. Also, Bernie was not in DC during this time period, and he certainly did not spill coffee on Tony Stark.  
> • Miscellaneous: A quick search revealed there are no people on Facebook, at least, cursed with the name Beaufort Aaron Burr.
> 
> Otherfax:  
> Reviews appreciated! Next chapter will be up sometime next week.


	3. Firestorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a pair of protagonists overcome their fractured psyches and protect the planet.
> 
> Or: this is why you don’t let Tony babysit, kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have excuses! Hurricane Matthew nearly made landfall in my area, and while we evacuated and my house is fine, the resulting catch-up college work delayed me. And *then* came the problem of trying to figure out what scenes to include, what scenes to not include, "how the hell do I keep this under 10K words?", that sort of thing. 
> 
> I eventually broke what was going to be Chapter 3 into Chapter 3 (~9.5K, oops) and an epilogue (~3.5K), and decided that Erik's introduction (an AU version of Erik Lehnsherr will be playing a large role in the Plot) could wait for the next story in this series. The epilogue is finished. I'll be posting that tomorrow, or possibly later this evening (as I mentioned, it's finished, I'm just paranoid and need to go over it again).

_Saturday, September 19, 2015_

 

It’s too much like thunder.

Crashing music, flashing lights, and alcohol, a kaleidoscopic conflagration, coalesce in his burning eyes and churning gut, and in the swelling panic a question simmers: _what am I going to do?_

_Leave._

_Breathe._

_Divert._

It’s a simple plan, and not enough, but Alexander, half-tipsy, escapes the venue, finds a bench along the road, and breathes, even as his chest tightens and panic constricts like a snake around his quickened heart.

“Damn it,” he curses. “Goddamn it to Hell.” The phrase has lost its potency in this century. Alexander exhales shakily, bowing his head to pinch the bridge of his nose, and hisses a vicious, “God-fucking-dammit.”

Then he draws the Starkphone _(already drowning in debt)_ from his pocket. Politics tend to have the opposite of a calming effect on Alexander, but anger is better than this—this anxiety attack? Panic attack? He detests the idea, but he has researched enough psychology over the past few days that tomorrow he can spar with Dr. Kwan over the matter of his treatment, and it fits the symptoms. _What am I going to do if I’ve become so weak?_

_Diversion,_ thinks Alexander dizzily. 

* * *

**Superwatch** @SuperNewsNetwork  
@RealCaptainAmerica takes the stage at NY mutant rally bit.ly/2cYgM34

* * *

The images veer into focus; the cameras magnify Captain America’s blurry figure as he takes the podium leagues away. Alexander—still mystified that this is _currently transpiring_ in _New York City_ , despite his vague understanding of cameras and electronic transmission—blinks at the screen as he slips on a pair of earbuds and listens.

Steve, clad in the bright and mildly absurd colors of an Avenger, grins, waves at the ecstatic crowds, and begins.

_The colors of an Avenger._

Steve Rogers, the gloriously muscled blond Adonis with a heart of vibranium-crusted platinum, and particularly Tony Stark, the man Hamilton will never admit is in all probability smarter than him—and even grieving but passionate Wanda, fiery but austere Maria, jovial but proud Rhodey, tactical but brazen Sam, despite Alexander’s previous utter moral and political failures on their behalf—all of these people he has become acquainted with, has imagined friendship and camaraderie with, but they are _Avengers,_ Avengers and the friends of Avengers, and he is alone.

It’s so quiet out here, and he is alone.

_What am I going to do?_

For now, Alexander returns to politics. He grounds himself on the wooden bench, with an autumn breeze eddying through his auburn curls. He listens, silently structuring counterarguments in order that he might refute them, and he brainstorms a pair of polemics directed toward Trump and Stryker – 

“Alexander, you need to get out of here.”

Alexander jolts. “Ms. Romanoff?!” 

Natasha—“Natasha,” he amends—toys with a gadget, turning it over in her folded hands, then stashes it in her pocket and flicks her hair behind her shoulders. The Black Widow softens her gaze from a soldier’s countenance to specious familiar femininity, as if it makes her less terrifying; it doesn’t. “There’s Hydra activity in Baltimore,” she says.

“That’s bad,” Alexander observes. 

Natasha doesn’t roll her eyes, but they still say: _duh._

He asks, “What happened?”

“There were mutant protests, and there’s been an explosion. Police are saying it’s a riot, but the FBI knows better,” she tells him.

“Is Darcy alright?”

“She’s being escorted to the White House, and – ”

“When are we leaving?”

“‘We’?” 

There’s a hint of chiding in her voice, like she’s speaking to a wayward little boy, and Alexander responds like one, standing, crossing his arms, and saying, testily even to his own ears, “Yes, _we._ I won’t cower while Hydra threatens America.”

She says, “The Secret Service wants to protect you.”

“I outrank most of them.”

“I don’t think they’re military. And didn’t you resign?” 

“Nevertheless, the Avengers, supplemented by my own martial prowess, are more than adequate protection if half of the stories on the interwebs are true.”

“Internet,” Natasha corrects.

“I _know_ that!” he snaps. “‘Interwebs’ is a _humorous_ term. I know these things; I’m _not_ stupid.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” says Alexander, a little sheepish. “Seriously, though, I’ll go with you” – and hasn’t the modern vernacular infected his speech so quickly? “When are we leaving?”

* * *

**CNN** @CNN  
Third explosion rocks Baltimore; perpetrators unknown.  
cnn.it/4aAiK21

 **Superwatch** @SuperNewsNetwork  
#Avengers spotted in Baltimore talking with protestors, police. bit.ly/2cYgM34

 **Tony Stark** @Iron_Man  
Terrorist activity detected in Baltimore. Investigation underway. Please remain calm and clear the area.-FRIDAY

 **j a m e s** @JamesAveline  
finally avengers putting a stop to these BLM terrorists #ALLlivesmatter

 **christina** @fangirl1776  
It makes me feel really uncomfortable that the Avengers are interfering with a civil rights movement. That’s not okay. 

**WHIH Newsfront** @WHIHOfficial  
Poll: Should #Avengers respond to political conflicts? bit.ly/5dMgM21

* * *

“Alex, the hell are you doing here?” says Sam incredulously.

“Refusing to cower, and stepping up to fight for this land, if necessary,” Alexander says, glaring down at his phone. “Also, browsing Twitter.”

“Keeping an eye on social media for intel?” says Clint. “Smart.”

“Um, yeah,” says Alexander. “Thanks.” 

Natasha peers over his shoulder, and he scowls, shutting the phone off and stashing it in his pocket. “He’s stalking Lin-Manuel again,” she informs Clint and Sam. 

Clint raises an eyebrow and says, “Nat, the hell’d you bring him?” 

“Because he wouldn’t stop talking,” says Natasha. “It would’ve been more trouble to get him to stop complaining than to just bring him along. As long as he doesn’t get shot.”

“Yeah, don’t get shot,” Sam advises.

Alexander’s cheeks burn, and he shoves away an irrational surge of rage. These people banter; their words are no threat to his reputation.

_… I haven’t a reputation,_ he realizes dimly.

The quartet vacates the trash-strewn alley and enters a condemned building; the other Avengers pry information from authorities and bystanders while Fury and Maria supervise from the Pentagon. Sam sweeps the flashlight beam across the darkened room through thick wafts of dust, the shadows of old chandeliers and cobweb-covered furniture flickering across the walls. 

“Looks like an old hotel,” says Sam. “Bit weird for Hydra. Sure this is the place, Alex?”

“If even a vestige of uncertainty plagued my mind, I—…” He ducks his head, and finishes lamely, “Probably would’ve started a group chat anyway. But it appears the readings Ms. Romanoff exhibited to me emanate from the catacombs.”

“What’s down there?” asks Natasha.

“Catalina de Barçelona, a vampiress General Washington vanquished in his youth,” answers Alexander. “The Phoenix Star—it was a Masonic appendant fraternity for those with metahuman capabilities, including warlocks and mutants—made Washington a Grand Master, only a year after he first sought to join the Virginia Lodge, and built the catacombs to prevent her from rising.”

“Sealed evil in a can.” Clint drawls sarcastically, “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Yeah, I know. And it actually didn’t work,” says Alexander. “She escaped during the Revolution, briefly; the isolation had driven her mad. Washington sealed her away again—ignoring my advice _and_ denying my command, once again.”

“I’m sure Hydra’s dissected her by now, if they’re down there,” says Natasha, and Alexander, with a bit of sympathy for his fellow exhumed being, suppresses a shiver.

Clint sighs heavily. “Which means either Hydra…”

“Or insane vampire,” Natasha finishes. 

“While I’ll not expect unanimity of opinion among us, I hope for the vampiress; with modern instrumentation, she shan’t be difficult to – ” There’s a high-pitched shriek, there’s an elbow in his chest, and then Alexander’s on the ground, heart pounding, ego reeling while Natasha unloads her pistols into pallid, half-rotten walking corpses above him. One grabs her ponytail, barring its teeth and digging its nails into her shoulder, and an arrow skewers its neck, splattering rancid black goop across the floor and into Alexander’s face.

“Or Hydra-vampire-zombies,” says Sam, landing gracefully atop one of about nine creatures splayed about the room like discarded china dolls. “That works too.”

A part of Alexander thinks he should be nauseous at the display, but the brutes, their skin the lustrous white of corpses where it isn’t bubbling with purulent yellowish globules and black veins, are so feral in appearance and conduct that he can’t muster remorse. And that dearth of guilt might be worse than the thing itself: he wonders how many people of his era might have felt the same about Sam.

Alexander stands and, knowing this is not the purpose of the instrument but reluctant to ruin either his violet waistcoat or black jacket, dabs at his cheek with his pocket-square. “Have we an established contingency for the Hydra-vampire-zombie-apocalypse-thing, or are we, um, ‘winging it’?”

They’re winging it—which, Alexander discerns from a few moments’ observation, appears to be the Avengers’ norm. When the team radios Nick Fury and Maria Hill to apprise them of the situation, they consider their leaders’ appraisal and proceeding policies with begrudging respect, but with little of the military deference he expected Fury to demand. 

They reconvene at the police station to discuss Hydra’s motives and, upon determining a few doomsday scenarios, divvy themselves into small units, comprised of two combat teams and an intelligence team, the latter of which is Iron Man only, with the Founder as Tony’s ward. Increasingly, the eighteenth-century general finds each Avenger more easily likened to a battalion than a single individual; Alexander is maddeningly aware this status of invincibility hasn’t been—and can’t be—conferred to him.

* * *

**CNN** @CNN  
Steve Rogers (Captain America): “Mutant rights are human rights. Anything else is un-American.”  
cnn.it/4aAiK21

* * *

_Sunday, September 20, 2015_

 

_Goddammit, Alex,_ thinks Tony, _for the umpteenth time,_ “No, there’s nothing you can do to help.”

“You’re sure,” says Alex.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” says Tony, nodding vigorously as he pulls up a diagram of the church on his laptop. “Would I say it if I wasn’t sure?”

“Yeah, well, from my observations, you’re always _sure,”_ says Alex, “but not always _right.”_

Tony hits the _enter_ key a little harder than necessary, because he finally gets how people find the guy annoying. _Little bastard,_ he thinks viciously.

“Is there intel I might provide?” Alex asks. “Perhaps I can peruse social media; I’ve become adept in its navigation – ”

“Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it, ‘kay?” says Tony, looking up, for once, at the smaller (seriously, the dude’s like three inches shorter than him, he’s a hobbit), but standing, man. “New idiom for you. By-the-way. ‘Cross that bridge when we come to it.’”

Alex frowns, crossed arms falling to his sides. “I’ve heard that idiom before.”

“Oh,” says Tony. He nods. “Cool.”

“Perhaps—if it isn’t distracting—inform me of the plan; thus far, I haven’t even observed one’s existence.” Alex’s frown does not appear to be going anywhere. Actually, if anything, he looks kind of miserable, which Tony hates, because one, he’s not equipped to handle emotions like that, two, it’d be really annoying for the guy to have a breakdown right now. 

And three, well, Tony just doesn’t like people to be miserable. Miserysucks.

“Yeah, okay,” says Tony. “So Team Wanda is going underground to search for Hydra HQ. Once they get there, they’ll… take care of the problem, y’know – ” He slices a finger across his neck.

And there goes Alex’s frown, replaced by a look of _are you kidding me? I’m a goddamn general, you peremptory and impudent douchebag_ —and specifically _that,_ too: the guy is so wordy that even his silences have very verbose subtext.

So Tony responds with a look of _you’re one of a hundred thousand dudes who probably died in duels and/or had affairs and you otherwise weren’t important enough to mention in elementary school, and I’m Anthony Stark and a lot smarter than you._ He says, “And Team Vision’s just sweeping the city, checking it out, securing it block-by-block with the Iron Legion, making sure there aren’t any vampire-zombies turning other people into vampire-zombies.” 

“But what is the _Plan?”_

“That’s the Plan.”

“That’s a faint Idea and barely a concept!”

“That’s the point! We don’t have information, _so-o…_ we improvise.” 

“Then the plan ought to be _step one: acquire information—step two: if Hydra is – ”_

“That’s a waste of time,” says Tony. “Actually we’re wasting time, arguing. Right now. Let me do this. I can handle it. Just… I dunno. Get a Twitter pseudonym, or – ”

“What’s that?” 

“Twitter? I thought you knew – ”

“No,” says Alex, pointing to a blip on Tony’s radar. “That.” 

Tony blinks. A red circle flashes at Pratt and President, near the Baltimore Harbor and about two blocks from their location. “Uh,” says Tony. He taps it to read more, and he does not like these readings _at all._ “FRIDAY?”

“It appears to be some sort of biochemical weapon,” she replies. “I alerted the other Avengers, boss, but I don’t know if they’ll reach it in time. Both teams are currently in combat with the creatures.” 

Tony pauses, suddenly wishing he wasn't already using the Iron Legion for crowd control and sentinel duty. He really needs to do something, but he’s been assigned to protect this tiny asshole. Purposely leaving to investigate a biochemical weapon is probably not considered following those directions, and Tony doesn’t want to deal with the quagmire, emotional and bureaucratic, of having the guy die under his watch.

But if it’s a biochemical weapon, they could very well die anyway, even if they’re holed up here. 

_“Hey, Tony,”_ says Rhodey in his earpiece. _“Hill just told us about the weapon. I’d really rather you – ”_

Tony mutes the conversation; FRIDAY will unmute it if there’s something really important. “We should – ”

“Let’s go,” says Alex. 

They grab their gear—Tony dons the Iron Man suit; Alex improvises with a pair of pistols and a bulletproof trench-coat—and go, Tony in the lead.

Baltimore’s streets are empty here. With the curfew and the lingering protests several blocks away, there’s not a soul in sight. In the silence their footfalls echo against the buildings, quietly enough that it’s unlikely anyone hears them, but loudly enough that Tony fears irrationally they’ll be heard. It sets Tony’s heart racing, thudding almost claustrophobically against the cage of the suit, like the Arc Reactor’s still in his chest. He’d much rather fly, honestly—it makes everything worth it, but that’s a little difficult with an earthbound partner.

A block away from the radar blip, they duck into an alley. “Almost there,” Tony says, volume low as he analyzes the screens. “Okay, so scans indicate the weapon’s two hundred feet underground. There an entrance to the catacombs around here?”

Alex blinks the obvious awe at the suit from his eyes, shakes himself, and shrugs. “To be candid I’ve no idea—but I don’t think so. They shouldn’t extend this far with construction of an era _decades_ prior to mine, even with magic. And assuredly they shouldn’t be so deep.” 

“Okay, probably something built by Hydra,” says Tony. He strides forward, saying, “Let’s—uh-oh.” There’s a group of nine heavily-armed individuals moving in their direction, toward the weapon. 

“Uh-oh? What ‘uh-oh’? Might you be inclined toward perspicuity greater than ‘uh-oh’? _Burr_ seldom engaged in deliberate obfuscations so vague, and I’d prefer loquacious circumlocution to a measly ‘uh-oh’ – ”

“I’ve got an Idea.” Iron Man rockets upward. 

_“Stark!”_ shouts Alex, shaking his fist as he shrinks from a hobbit to a Lilliputian. Tony soars higher until he spies the nine hooligans creeping along. He takes a moment to scan the silent group: all male, white-as-mayo, twenty-/thirty-somethings, clad in tacky dark Nazi get-ups, and, indeed, armed to the teeth with weapons ranging from knives to pistols to I-Don’t-Think-You-Could-Buy-That-In-Texas.

In short, probably Hydra and probably not a threat, but none of them have pulses, so Tony can’t know for sure until he tries.

He charges. They jump, raising their weapons; their apparent leader, the shortest of them (still an inch taller than Tony by the display measurements, not that he cares) shouts something German. Iron Man halts about ten feet from them, hovering in the air, because he really should give them a chance, right?

“Republicans are somewhere south of here, just in case you’re looking,” says Tony.

“Mr. Stark,” says the leader in a surprisingly American accent. “What a nice surprise!” With a polite smile that reveals an almost _dainty_ pair of fangs, he bows at the waist. “I’m Jim.”

“That’s a terrible villain name, even for a lame white supremacist. Unless it’s for Jim Crow. Is it for Jim Crow?”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” says Jim.

“By ‘pleasure’, you mean ‘opportunity’, right?”

Jim nods. “Gentlemen,” he says, still smiling. “Feuer frei!” 

And Tony knows just enough German for that one.

The next instant there’s a shower of bullets. Then there’s a flash of light and an incinerated pair of vampires as Tony lurches to the right. His feet slash an awning and his shoulder smashes someone’s balcony; he has just enough time to feel sorry before there’s gunfire, the sound of shattered glass, and a fountain of sparkling shards fluttering around him. A few high-caliber bullets clip his leg on the ascent out of range; he hisses “Dammit!” as FRIDAY informs him serenely: “Local armor integrity holding at 93%.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that!” 

Tony whizzes around and takes a nosedive. He fires two repulser blasts on the way down: one at Jim, one at Big-Guy and the guy with the Illegal-In-Texas Gun. They all dodge with inhuman speed, but Big-Guy doesn’t quite make it, and he shrieks as his clothes catch fire—then he turns to ash.

Tony reverses course a few inches from the ground. One of the vampires makes a running leap for him; the monitors say he’s going to make it; Iron Man veers sideways – 

The man snatches his ankle. Tony kicks. The grip constricts; sharp, cold pain flares in his foot. 

“Boss, if he does that again, he could break your ankle – ”

The vampire grins, grunts, and grabs one of the grooves near Tony’s torso, knife gleaming in hand. 

“Least of my problems!” says Tony. “Hm. Let’s see how well this guy handles inertia.” He shoots skyward at breakneck speed. 

“Boss, I’m _trying_ to compensate for the shakiness caused by your blood-alcohol levels, but I highly recommend you don’t break the sound barrier – ” 

When Tony reaches nineteen hundred feet, he spreads his arms wide and cuts all thrust, then reverses it.

Physics tugs the vampire upward. He snarls, leaps, and drives the knife into the arc reactor. Then he slips away.

“Aw, shit,” says Tony. Iron Man’s left in darkness. 

Nineteen hundred feet.

Count to ten. 

Then you’re at terminal velocity.

Then you die.

“JARVIS!” shouts Tony. 

Silence replies, then static; the realization slams into his chest with the force of a meteor, and for a few seconds of whistling wind, he thinks it might be easier to just fall down.

To fall just like Sokovia. Just like all the people he’s failed.

“I’m rerouting all auxiliary power!” 

Not JARVIS. _“FRIDAY,”_ he murmurs.

FRIDAY’s voice crackles: “I can’t give you steering, but I’m going to stop the fall!”

Thrust reverses and he feels his head over his feet followed by his boots on the ground. “You’re welcome, boss,” she lilts. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe I can return power to the display.”

Tony retracts the Iron Man helmet and glances around. The good: he’s on an empty sidewalk with no vampires. The bad: there’s a knife in the arc reactor, shooting sparks everywhere. He grips the handle and yanks out the half-melted thing, tossing it aside—just as the suit’s power surges. The blade smacks a diner window, shattering glass, and he cringes.

He asks, “How much power’ve I got?”

“Not enough to fly for longer than twenty seconds,” she answers. “Six repulser blasts, and they’ll be weaker than before. I suggest finding another weapon.”

“Right. Are none of the suits from the Iron Legion available?” 

“They’re all currently in-use,” says FRIDAY. “I may be able to disengage one, but I’d risk the other Avengers.”

Tony mutters some rather creative curses about the vampire involving anatomically impossible sex positions and stepping on Legos, but nonetheless seeks out his new friend instead of a new suit. He finds Alex, who has that other weapon, pacing back and forth between two walls and muttering, hands folded behind his back in a martial stance. Alex doesn’t acknowledge Tony, though a slight flicker in expression reveals he’s been observed.

“So the suit’s shot,” says Tony. 

Alex finally halts.

“Well. Stabbed, actually. Can I have a gun?”

“No; I’ve a Plan,” Alex says. “Whatever you do, whatever _I_ do in the next few minutes, I promise, you can, and must, _trust me.”_

And then there’s a gun at Tony’s temple and somehow his only thought is _geez, how’d Aaron Burr kill this guy if he’s that quick on the draw?_ followed shortly by “The hell?”

Tony’s prepping a repulser blast when – 

“If you so much as wince,” snarls Alexander Hamilton rather too loudly, “I swear by my honor, as a gentleman, as a man of _wealth_ and _taste_ enough to have already sampled The Rolling Stones, I’ll put a bullet in your temple before this machination can save you. And if, _if_ you manage to kill me, well. I shall have to kill you a second time if we perchance meet in Hell.” 

Tony scowls. “Until then, I’ll be sipping ice-cold martinis with the Devil.” He raises a fist.

The gun falls to Alex’s side. The littler man facepalms. Then he looks back up with a raised eyebrow and mouths: “Play along.”

_Oh._

The gun returns. Tony would protest, or at least ask what the idea is here, but something about a gun’s barrel against his temple has a quieting effect. Alex marches them into the street to face the now rather ragged-looking quintet of Nazi vampires. “My brethren, we surrender!” exclaims Alex when the Illegal-In-Texas-Gun points their way. “Or, at least, I surrender on his behalf?”

Tony hisses a hopefully realistic-sounding curse word. Alex barks a more realistic-sounding _“Quiet!”_ —probably because Tony’s acting skills need work.

The gun doesn’t go anywhere. Jim asks, “And who might you be?”

“Nathanael Madison?” says Alex.

Jim gestures for his goon to lower the gun. “Are you a friend of Hydra?” There’s a note in his voice that sounds like a trick question, and Tony prays Alex hears it – 

He does. Alex hesitates for a moment, eyes sweeping across the faces of the group. “An acolyte of _power,_ and I suspect you’re much the same,” he answers. “For to embrace _magic_ where science might be adequate is contrary to the soul of Hydra as I understand it—but what power is greater than immortality? I dream of public empire, yes, but to shape the fate of the world from the shadows, for centuries hence? I’ll gladly betray Hydra for the kiss of that sweet night.”

_Have you never heard of overacting?_ wonders Tony, glaring at Alex.

“Is this guy for reals?” says the six-foot six guy with the Illegal-in-Texas gun and a predictably southern accent, earning a sharp look from Jim. 

“I doubt a man of your inferior intellect has an imagination vivid enough to conjure apparitions as eloquent as me,” says Alex, glaring up a foot and a couple inches. “In words a small-minded fool like yourself can understand: _Yeah,_ I’m real. Fuck off.” 

Jim seems suspicious, and Southern-Guy looks downright murderous. But Jim says, “Have the Avenger remove his armor. Then follow me.”

Tony growls, “There’s _no way in hell – ”_

“The suit is barely functional,” says Alex. “In fact, without the, ah, reactor, it’s worse than useless: a heavy piece of metal, slowing him down. This a waste of our very valuable time. I could lower the gun if I wanted to, and he would still do nothing, for he knows there’s no escape.” Alex lowers the gun; Tony doesn’t move.

Well. He doesn’t move for a few seconds. Then Tony waves at them cheekily.

“Okay, let’s go,” says Alex. _“Now.”_ A few angry vampires and overacted evil speeches from Alex later, they’re on the way toward the 50s diner whose window Tony broke with the knife. Jim leads them across a field of shattered glass and into the back, where there’s a storage freezer.

_If I was a super-villain,_ thinks Tony, _and that was a real freezer,_ _I’d stuff us in there and leave us to die._ As surreptitiously as possible, he glances to Alex, who is apparently thinking the same thing: the man with the gun takes a few steps back, tugging his fake-hostage with him.

Jim enters a passcode (04201889—Hitler’s birthday, how _subtle)_. The freezer dings. “You coming?” says Jim.

They step inside. The doors close, lights flickering, and Tony exhales a shaky breath. An awful screech sounds as they descend, which turns out to be elevator music—and worse than a Steve Rogers playlist terrible. Jim jabs the B-20 button. The elevator squeals. _“Level B-1,”_ crackles a horrible, mechanical, and obnoxiously fake-German-accented voice, some ten seconds later. The elevator music crescendoes. 

_“Level B-2.”_ It’s cramped, Tony’s arm brushing against an ice-cold corpse by accident; within moments it becomes painfully apparent that Tony and Alex are the only ones with pulses. _“Level B-3.”_ The only thing worse than that quickening, echoing breath and the rush of blood in his ears is the periodic groan and rattle of this worthless machine. _“Level B-4.”_

The music flares and vanishes. The room drops several degrees as they slide further into the abyss. Tony thinks he can hear his heartbeat—not only his pulse in his ears, but the palpitating organ pounding in his chest. It’s like standing here is a marathon.

Mercifully, the elevator squeals to a halt. 

But the doors don’t open. 

Tony inhales sharply, glancing toward where he’ll need to step to press that keypad as Jim turns to them. The vampire smiles sweetly down at Alex. “Mr. Madison, you should know. Your heart acts oddly when it’s lying. And vampires hear – ”

Tony lunges. He punches Southern-Guy out of the way and taps _04201889_ before anyone can make a move, and by the time Alex has drawn his pistol and Jim is fighting with him over it, the doors are opening.

Alex abandons the gun and leaps into the corridor, Iron Man behind him. The vampires attempt to flee; Tony fires a low-power blast their way, knocking them over, and shuts the doors with another keypad and Hitler’s birthday.

The doors open.

Tony punches in the code.

The doors open again.

Tony punches in the code again.

This happens another three times before Tony wastes another repulser blast on a Stark EMP. 

The entire corridor darkens. It’s black as soot down here, and the vampires are still banging against the door.

“They’ll escape eventually,” says Alex. He draws something from his coat, and then there’s a shining Starkphone flashlight, illuminating the retro-futuristic hallway (seriously, straight out of _2001_ ). “We ought to move.” 

“Okay, FRIDAY?” says Tony. “You still with me, FRIDAY?”

“Yes, sir,” says FRIDAY from the Starkphone, her voice crackling.

“Where’s the weapon? And how’re things on the surface?”

“The weapon appears to be thirty meters ahead,” she says. They exchange glances, and then press forward into the darkness, away from the pounding of the vampires against thick steel. “You are on the correct floor. As for the surface, minor injuries only.”

There’s a particularly loud _clang_ behind them, followed by snarling. “If I remember my lore, those vampires are masters—fully sapient,” Alex says. “I presume the zombies are a breed of fledgling with even less free will than is typical.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “Is this right, FRIDAY?” 

“I’m not aware of this terminology or how to verify your hypothesis,” she says.

“When Tony attacked these vampires, were there any spontaneous deaths or other unusual behavior from the zombies?”

FRIDAY says: “Yes. During the skirmishes here many of the creatures displayed unusually submissive behavior, which resulted in the aforementioned minor injury when they returned to normal—Clint has been bitten.”

“Shit,” says Tony.

“Is he okay?” asks Alex. They reach a dead end; Alex freezes at the choice, and Tony picks left for no reason other than that Donna Noble turned that way and met the Doctor. Like the previous corridor, they see and hear no one.

“A low body temperature and blood pressure notwithstanding, his vitals are normal,” FRIDAY answers.

“Wait. I think I know how this works,” says Tony. “Intelligent vampire masters control unintelligent vampire fledglings, and – ”

“This is the end of the biochemical weapon,” Alex breathes. He turns, wide-eyed to Tony. “Aerosolized vampirism that will transmute Baltimore into a city of undead: an army with which to found a worldwide empire upon the bones of zombie slaves, the whole world robbed of free will for all eternity. The ground attacks are merely a distraction.” And dammit, Alex stole his words, and probably made them more eloquent, too.

“It’s brilliant,” says Alex.

“Uh,” says Tony.

“’Tis also malicious knavery, causative of great collateral damage resulting in loss of life, and not a method I’d deign to embrace in pursuing world domination,” he adds in a rush. 

Tony raises an eyebrow (because he’s denouncing _that method,_ not world domination in general), but he decides not to ask.“Does that match up, FRIDAY?” 

“Yes, boss,” she says. “There are several devices throughout the city which the Avengers have yet to identify which could be connected with the main weapon we’ve detected.”

“Okay, we need to get there faster,” Tony says. “Have you mapped the place?”

“The signal’s weak here,” she says. “I’m afraid not. Sorry, boss.”

They wander aimlessly in the silence, careful to keep moving in the general right direction. The bunker is something of a maze, but there are no locked doors, no traps that he can see, no enemies—not even one of those horribly easy Skyrim-claw-puzzles. “This is wrong,” Tony says to Alex as he begins to turn another handle. “The weapon should be in here.” 

“It is,” says FRIDAY. “Boss, you’re correct; statistically there should be a lock.”

“An ambush,” says Alex. “This is absolutely wonderful.”

“We’ll just have to be careful,” Tony says, shrugging. “Ready?” 

“I have my second pistol,” says Alex. “Yes.”

He starts to open the door, then stops, remembering abruptly, for at least the seventh time this week, that Alex is _Alexander Hamilton,_ who was supposed to aim for Aaron Burr and hit an overhanging tree branch instead. “Can you shoot?” asks Tony. 

“I’m a soldier,” Alex retorts. _“George Washington_ made me a _General_ even though the President thought I was a—what was it? A ‘Creole bastard utterly devoid of moral principle _,’_ and _fired_ me. Hamilton, not recommended. _So yes._ I can shoot. Obviously.”

“You lost a duel. Badly.”

Alex scowls. “I lost not for lack of marksmanship. I–it was never my intention to take Burr’s life. I threw away my shot.”

“So-o _why’d_ you show up? You leave situations you don’t like. I mean. You figured out that guy was flirting with you, right? And you left?”

“Count the colors in this outfit, Tony. Failing that, observe the hair gel. _I_ was flirting with _him.”_

After a few seconds of drawing a complete blank on how to respond to that small bombshell, Tony manages a lame, “Oh! Okay. I don’t have a problem with that, I’m glad for you. But I just need to know if I can count on you to shoot if it comes down to it.” 

“You can count on me.” 

“So… why’d you leave the bar?”

“Because I remembered I’ve no commitments.”

“Yeah, isn’t that a good thing – ?”

“Because I remembered I’m a widower!” Alex spits.

Tony reels. This was not intended to be something…  _feely,_ just strategic, but he appears to have opened Pandora’s Box and _it’s just not closing._ Alex continues ranting, in that especially pirate-y accent he adopts when he’s really upset: “ – _devastation,_ not water in my shoes; furthermore I’m well aware that it’s my fault I lost her, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d refrain from reminding me; yet even despite these transgressions, you can count on me to watch your back: I won’t abandon you, and I certainly won’t make the same mistake twice. Provided you don’t so _blatantly ignore_ my humanity again.” 

“Look, I’m _sorry_ you think I hurt your feelings, _”_ says Tony.

“All is forgiven.” Alex smiles, makes a gesture of openness and apology, but there’s a sharpness to it that Tony hasn’t noticed before—like he’s taken the grudge and filed it away on some itemized list in his head.

But Tony can’t deal with that right now. He says, “Let’s go.”

They step inside; the doors clang shut behind them. It’s a wide corridor lined by computers, leading to a bigger circular chamber. At the center, surrounded by railings, a spiraling staircase, and a large collection of hanging platforms, there's a dully glowing, sickly green missile-like object reaching above the ceiling and below this floor.

A dark-haired woman stalks into the corridor. Tony charges a blast and Alex points the pistol, but her hands go up. They pause. She’s striking, with her warmly toned skin and shapely lips, but she’s bloodless, and she moves like a marionette. She moves like a corpse with strings.

The woman flicks an accusatory finger toward him and struts forward. “You’re Iron Man—so spectacular, and even more roguishly handsome in person – ”

Tony smirks. 

She points to Alex. “And you—should I know you?” Her accent is strange—like she’s trying to mimic a thicker version of Alex’s lilts through a cadence that reminds him of both French and Spanish.

“I doubt you would remember me, but I know you. You’re Catalina de Barçelona,” Alex says. Tensely, he bows at the waist. “But I don’t understand. The last time we met, you hated Hydra. Why help them now?”

_“This_ is Catalina de Barçelona?” says Tony incredulously. “The vampiress George Washington va – ”

“Don’t speak that name!” she hisses. She drops into a crouch and twirls, blood-red eyes scouring the chamber for signs of danger above, around, and below. Finally she whirls to Tony, pointing a finger. “You give him _power.”_

“Uh,” says Tony. “I’m not sure how to break this to you, but Washington’s dead.” 

“Don’t you understand how gods are made, Mr. Stark? _”_ Catalina snarls. “Every time you speak his name, it is a prayer unto the cosmos.” She looks up, putting spindly, bloodless fingers on either side of her mouth. “Washington. Washington, _Washington!_ You see? _Power._ So imagine when I woke up, discovered my oldest enemy was the god of an empire—that Spain lost her colonies and _suffered._

“So when I realized this was a Hydra military base, built as an extension to the one at SHIELD Headquarters, all but abandoned after the Battle of the Triskelion… I saw my opportunity. I turned every officer and every unlucky soul they’d captured. And _I_ control them. _I_ will raise an army. _I_ will make America suffer.”

“‘Make America suffer,’” Tony echoes. “You know, that sounds like a campaign slogan. Look, señora de Barçelona, we already figured out your evil plan to take over the world. It’s 2AM at the earliest.”

“It’s three fourteen,” FRIDAY chimes in.

Tony asks, “Can we skip the evil gloating?” 

She pauses. “As you wish.” 

Catalina lunges for Tony. He grabs her wrist and halts her first blow, but she kicks him in the chest, sending him hurtling through the air. Iron Man soars forward before he hits the ground, landing beside Alex. Catalina rushes them; Tony springs and traps her in a headlock. She shrieks; she snarls. 

Tony tells Alex, “There’s probably a control panel up those stairs. I don’t think you want to fight the vampiress?”

“Agreed,” Alex says, hurrying toward the chamber. “Talk me through?” 

Fangs bear down on his hand; he feels the metal _crack_ and _pop;_ there’s bone scraping flesh and Tony flinches.

Catalina escapes his arms and charges Alex. Tony leaps to block her. She _slices:_ he ducks the silver flash of blade. A second later and he would’ve lost his head. He knows it; she knows it; they lock eyes and she smiles. “I’ll try, but no promises,” Tony says.

A repulser blast sends Catalina tumbling across the room into the back wall. She rises on shaky arms, hair matted, teeth barred. She snarls, “And you’ll fail!”

Tony doubts that. But he’s not pulling his punches.

Catalina stands. He charges and aims for her nose. Instead, his fist dents the door. She swings; he blocks, anticipates and ducks the kick, and – 

Then he’s crashing backwards into the computers. Wires break and crackle against the suit.

“I think I found the controls!” shouts Alex.

“Awesome,” Tony groans, sitting upright from a shower of sparks, and suddenly hating this woman for destroying a perfectly innocent computer. He lunges – 

“Tony, there is a” – Tony ducks a swipe – “which is resting atop an icon labeled ” – and counterpunches; she ducks – “and folders, which appear to contain various programs” – he dodges a stab – “and a digital clock, counting down from three minutes” – and Catalina kicks him into the chamber: he crashes against the iron stairs, and the whole structure rattles. He looks up in time to see a piece of metal catwalk swaying, and – 

It collapses; he pulls up the helmet just as it crashes on top of him, and he feels its impact rattling against his skull. “I’m okay!” Alex, exclaims, and Tony hears footfalls above.

He retracts the mask and groans, shoving the debris off of him, and says, “Awesome. Wish I could say the same.” Iron Man’s still trapped; it’s heavy, heavy enough that it cracked the concrete floor, and there’s not enough power left in the suit to push it away. He fires a repulser blast. The metal slams into a wall, contorted. “Can you describe the folders?!”

Alex, now standing on a catwalk near the one that fell, growls in frustration. “I clicked one; it gave me a message which says _Do you want to run program?_ I’m assuming ‘no’!”

Tony stands, whirling; he can’t see Catalina. 

“Yeah, probably not, I – ” There’s a blur of motion, and then he’s pinned.Her teeth are moving toward his neck. He prays the repulsers still work – and rockets her toward the ceiling: she crashes on one of the suspended catwalks. 

Tony lifts off and lands beside her. Catalina staggers upright; he aims for her nose and connects with her shoulder, and then her arms wrap around his neck, and she’s muttering something in ancient Spanish, and he catches a word about how _delicioso_ he smells, and how awesome it’d be if he was her _servidor._

_Yeah, not happening. Fuck that._ “So this is a computer?” 

“Yeah, it’s a MacBook Pro!” says Alex.

“What’s the IP address?” Tony asks. He bucks her off his back; he sends her crashing onto another platform.

“What in God’s name is an IP address?!”

“It’s” – Catalina screeches something and leaps through the air –  “‘Kay, never mind, no time for that” – she lands next to him; the floor _tilts;_ her claws rake across his cheek; he grunts, knocks the knife out of her hand, and shoves her down, and has to fire thrusters to keep himself on the catwalk – “just create a StarkPlay account!” 

The platform stabilizes; Catalina grabs his ankle and yanks him to the ground as Alex says, “What?! I’m doing so presently, but why?!” 

The knife’s about two feet from both Tony and Catalina. They lock eyes and scramble for it, as he yells, “Name the account something like _‘FRIDAY, break this one’,_ and she’ll do it!” 

Tony snatches the blade.

His skin brushes metal through a crack in his gauntlet. 

It’s hotter than it should be, Tony observes. 

His flesh sizzles; he yelps, and the blade clatters to the ground. 

“Tony?!” yells Alex.

Tony can’t reply. He’s writhing on the platform, hissing through clenched teeth as a hellish agony surges in his palm, his forearm, down the whole right side of his body. He thrashes, and his heart _burns:_ it pounds acid, not blood, through his his veins; fiery ribbons swirl along his arching spine. Trembling, Tony glares up at a beaming Catalina. 

“Oblivion silver,” she says proudly, brandishing the dagger. There’s a black handprint on its silver handle, and the soot sprawls and swims until there’s not a hint of gleam left. “It burns and poisons mortals as true silver burns the supernatural.”

“FRIDAY,” hisses Tony. 

“As I mentioned earlier, the internet connection here is terrible, boss,” the AI says. “It’ll take at least another thirty seconds to sufficiently ruin the computer.”

“So you’re telling me,” Tony says, grinding his teeth and repressing a shout as pain roils and swells in his gut, “that bad WiFi is going to end the world?!” 

“Perfect,” Catalina says, brandishing the blade. “Enough time to kill your friend and release the plague.” 

“Like hell you will.” His vision blurs and swims and he feels like he has the worst hangover ever, but he’s not going to stand for this.

Tony fires; she dodges. 

_One more shot._ He fires again; Catalina leaps, and lands above Tony. 

_Twenty seconds. C’mon, Alex._

Tony looks above; through the holes in the catwalk’s mesh, he sees as Alex draws the pistol and fires. The bullet glances off the vampiress. She stands, points, and laughs. “I do recognize you!” Catalina claps her hands together. “Alexander Hamilton, no? The aide-de-camp, defiler of vestals, the courtesan – ”

“Shut up,” growls Alex. 

She coos. “Did they not realize you were less Apollo, more Hyacinth, when they made a god from their pretty little catamite?”

“I said _shut up!”_

“Oh, but you won’t have to listen for much longer,” Catalina says sweetly. “Because unlike Hyacinth, you threw that discus into your _own neck;_ and from your neck, I’ll drink.” 

Alex raises his pistol toward the sky. He fires; the bullet strikes one of the highest catwalk’s suspension chords. The whole platform sways, but he aims and fires again at the other tether – 

The poison chooses that moment of all moments to wear off; Tony blinks, shakes himself, and has the presence of mind to roll off his platform. Then there’s an echoing _snap;_ the structures above plummet, collapse like a house of cards – 

Alex and Catalina fall. Iron Man hovers midair, looking down in horror at the debris. There’s broken equipment, spewing liquids, greenish gases from splintered pipes. He sees the vampiress, pinned beneath shrapnel and unconscious, but he’s lost the Founding Father.

_Shit-fuck, shit-fuck,_ pounds Tony’s heart.

The green-missile-thing goes dark. He can’t quite muster relief. 

Tony steels himself, and says “Alex?” very quietly. He repeats it, a little louder this time as he descends toward the dispersing miasma.

He hears a low moan in reply, and Tony’s about to freak out when Alex says, “I’m alright! Just—just buried alive at present."

Tony lands beside the voice. He clears away as much of the rubble as possible, revealing Alex, who’s covered in dust and cuts and pinned beneath a large piece of metal, but who doesn’t appear to have any grievous injuries. 

FRIDAY announces gleefully over the bunker’s loudspeakers, “All her base are belong to us. Catalina should not have run a fort from a MacBook.”

“Oh, God." Alex is in combat-mode again. "Where is she?”

“Over there.” Tony points.

“That’s good. Um.” Alex relaxes a little, and he looks around at the metal, concrete, and other debris on top of him. “I’m aware I'm lucky to be alive right now.” He meets Tony’s eyes with a grimace. “I’m also aware that Fury is keeping secrets.” 

“Duh. He’s Nick Fury. His fucking _secrets_ have secrets!”

Alex snorts. “That’s what he said about American revolutionaries, to which I replied our secrecy was to preserve the Earth for our progeny.” 

“So what you’re saying is the Founding Fathers were more eco-friendly than Republicans?”

He grins at that. “Yeah, I guess we were. But, um. Furthermore, people who keep secrets oft have cause for secrecy. Have you any idea why he’s opted for concealment, or what he’s concealed?”

“No,” Tony admits. “Sorry.”

Alex struggles to free himself, fails, and grimaces. “Regardless, I’m sort of, um, trapped, and I’ve apparently developed a dread of places comparable to graves; I’m sure you can figure out why. Help would be nice?” 

“Okay,” Tony says, taking hold of the debris. “The suit’s on low-power, so we’re gonna have to work together. Ready, on three, one, two, three – ” 

It takes a good three minutes to dislodge Alex from the rubble. The cavalry arrives about thirty seconds too late to be helpful, resulting in a torn suit jacket and an annoyed—but also grateful—Founding Father. 

After that, it’s basically over. Although one of the vampire masters who the Avengers accidentally let out of the elevator and then apprehended escapes _again,_ forcing Natasha and Vision to chase him through the bunker. This is a good thing, because Clint’s slightly-more-vampiric-than-usual Dad Face™ is terrifying enough without an assassin and a Messianic android as backup.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” Clint demands while Wanda and Sam handcuff an unconscious Catalina.

“Saving the world,” says Alex helpfully.

“Tony,” Rhodey says, strolling up to replace Natasha as backup. _Shit,_ Tony thinks. “This was a bad idea. I told you this was a bad idea.”

“You had explicit orders were to keep this guy” – Clint jabs a finger in Alex’s direction – “safe.” 

“There was a _biochemical weapon,”_ Tony retorts. “It would’ve killed us anyway. Or turned us into vampire-zombies, which… is that the same thing?” 

Alex says, “Yeah, that’s the same thing.”

“Which is the same thing,” says Tony.

“Furthermore, we were the very image of circumspection.” Rather darkly, Alex adds, “It isn’t as though Tony abandoned me in a shadowy alley.” 

“And Alex didn’t put a gun against my head.” 

“And we didn’t squander time discussing such trivial things as emotions – ”

“Or argue about history when we knew there could be an ambush – ”

“Or knowingly enter an elevator and then a chamber containing hostile vampires – ”

“Or purposely fall three stories – ”

“Or free-fall what must have been half a mile – ”

“Or even plot world domination!” Tony finishes.

That last one earns a glare from Alex. “Certainly not,” he says haughtily, but there’s a certain gleam in his eye that means he isn’t _actually_ pissed—probably.

“See?” says Tony, grinning. “Completely safe.” 

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose. Rhodey facepalms with both hands. “Tony,” Clint says. “Remind me to never let you babysit my kids.”

* * *

**The Atlantic** @TheAtlantic  
How did the Avengers become politicized? thatln.ntc/2fClAK8

* * *

“General Hamilton,” drawls Nick Fury, swiveling on his sublimely smooth chair to face Alexander. “Right on time. Just finished my meeting with Tony. It’s good to see you. Come on inside.”

“Yes, sir,” says Alexander. While it takes him several seconds to even notice the honorific, Director Fury is already grinning to himself, or at least at an invisible agent near the window, whose blinds are drawn so tight Alexander can’t see the sunlight.

“Take a seat,” says Fury.

“Yessir.” Alexander grabs the other swivel chair, and sits in it with such haste that he finds himself spinning. Clinging for a vestige of dignity and cursing Thomas Jefferson (for making these things so fun), he scrambles to stop himself and face the director. “You wanted to see me?”

“Of course. Anyone I don’t want to see who dares breach my office dies instantly.”

Alexander blinks.

“That was a joke. Now at ease, general, or you’ll strain something.”

Even though he can’t help but hear a note of subdued irony in ‘general’!—Alexander relaxes as much as he can. He can’t be perceived as a threat if he wants to negotiate for information and his freedom.

“Well, let’s see: a Founding Father, saving saving Washington and Baltimore from rampaging Hydra-vampire-zombies.” Fury snorts. 

“Yes, director.” 

“Yes what?” 

“Um—yes, sir?” 

Fury glares.

Alexander shrugs. “The world’s as lunatic to me as to everyone else, perhaps more. I sympathize with your chuckled, nonverbal sentiment, and – ”

“And I terrify you,” says the director.

“You don’t – ”

“ _No_ , I do.”

Alexander frowns. “Typically, the syntax of that is – ”

“ _Yes_ , I know.” Fury huffs, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to shorten your leash. And I see now that it’s a very bad idea to tie you to a desk for the rest of your life. But you _do_ need a leash,” he says finally. “There’s a reason I’m forcing you to go to a therapist. Tell me. Why do I intimidate you?”

Alexander pauses, considering. He selects, of a great many threats the director poses, the one which Fury is most likely to be aware of, so as not to grant him further advantages. 

He says, “The perpetuation of your good will, and nothing else, is, sir, an aegis very essential to the motor of this Earth, and the quasi- _Pax Terra_ that somehow the flag of democracy, a flimsy but evidently durable fabric, has effected is entirely under the auspices of your mood.Our government is under no illusions, nor is any governor, Kim Jong Un notwithstanding: you’re the most powerful man in the world. But I’m not sure it’s intimidation; rather, it may be _jealousy.”_

“Mhmm,” says Fury, nodding, but there’s a glint in his eye. “You like power. I like power. Mine isn’t the most democratic in the world, but I consider myself an enlightened despot. And, well. I dunno how monarchial you consider yourself – ”

“I don’t.”

“But even in a monarchy, what can we agree is required for legitimacy?” 

_Holy shit,_ he thinks, despite everything somewhat proud that the modern vernacular springs to mind, because _Fury knows_ the only card he has worth holding in his hand. He hasn’t anything to negotiate with.

Alexander replies, “The consent of the governed, always; it is the ultimate criterion of legitimacy, for reasons as, um, _practical_ as philosophical.” He deflects to irrelevance: “Otherwise, well. Unhappy people and people looking for glory have a lot in common, as you know I know, what with our Revolution and many others since – ”

“Uh-huh,” says Fury. He folds his hands atop the desk and leans across. “And there’s the catch. Consent of the governed. The Republican feds already want to pull the plug on ASCENT, and it’s less than a year old. So what’d happen if, under my watch, someone touched a hair on your head?”

And there it is: Alexander’s existence is a threat to a powerful man’s status. If Fury is as ruthless as he says, and if the Founder wants to live, he needs to say something reassuring, but his mouth goes dry at the taste of useless, frothing words that won’t protect him.

“Now, my power isn’t only in legitimate governance,” says the director. “It’s also bought in another, more expensive, more… varyingly reliable currency. The one you’re not very good at.”

“Loyalty.”

“Yeah. And it’s taken me awhile to procure it,” Fury admits. “Relationships, like government, are a bit of a balancing act between anarchy and dictatorship. Between you and me, I think we both prefer dictatorship, but that’s not a way to win friends. Point is, I _have_ friends, which means I have _options,_ even if you do something stupid. But I don’t wanna go down that route, and I don’t think you want me to, either. I’m keeping you _alive,_ General Hamilton, and if that means putting you in a padded room, it means putting you in a padded room.”

“I thought you said you were an _enlightened_ despot,” snarks Alexander. 

“I lied. Get used to it.” The Founder purses his lips. Disgust's and anger’s spawn is hatred, which is the last thing he needs to display to Fury. 

“Look, Director Fury,” says Alexander. He folds his hands and leans across the table, mirroring the director’s position. “You’re possessed of one very great advantage. You’ve read about me. But that also means you know I need to stand for _something_ in this oblivion where there’s no other meaning for me—else I’ll need that ‘padded room’ for vastly different reasons.”

“Yeah,” says Fury. “Believe me, I understand.But unfortunately, only one of us gets the legacy. The other gets the therapist and the Prozac. Sorry about that.” 

It’s the rage of the Iliad, the rage of Achilles, that sings in him, dark and murderous. Alexander growls, “You shan’t control me forever.” And he can’t control the rage forever, either.

Fury raises an eyebrow. “What’d I just say about dictatorship and influence?”

“Noncombat missions,” demands Alexander. “Less dangerous battlefields, even. Glories, small glories, that I might celebrate in private. _Something,_ I – ” He breaks away and finds himself standing, sending the swivel chair spinning again—spinning aimlessly, just like the prospects of his life stretching onwards. Trembling, he turns to the window, bows his head, clenches his jaw, and balls his fists.

Alexander hears Fury adjust his chair, probably to get a better look at him. “You’re not in control of yourself,” the director observes.

Stiffly, Alexander shakes his head.

“Maybe the Prozac and the therapist’s a good idea even without the whole legacy problem.” 

He snorts but otherwise doesn’t deign to reply.

_Distraction._ He needs one. Alexander presses his thumb against the blinds and glares down at the city. The office is not particularly high by modern standards, but at ten stories it is higher than he is used to. He watches an affectionate couple pass by, holding hands of differing colors. A curious sort of temporal whiplash and vertigo overtakes him; the vertigo feels better than anger. 

“Both your addictive mistresses, danger and power, united in unholy matrimony while you’ve lost everyone else,” says Fury bluntly. “Yeah. Anybody’d need a therapist.”

“Power?” Alexander says finally. “You’ve made it clear to me that the only power I have is the power to destroy. I don’t destroy. I build. I build, and I _control._ So if you’re worried about sabotage…” 

He trails off, and turns to face the director with a heavy sigh. “Some people think it’s better to be remembered as a villain than to not be remembered at all. And while I’m sure I’d make a great supervillain—no, seriously, I would, imagine _Alexander Hamilton_ as a villain hell-bent on destroying America, or something: I’d be charismatic and unforgettable—but—I’m… not one of those people. I did my best to die a hero.”

Fury’s eyes widen, but only for a moment. 

The moment's long enough for Alexander to realize what he’s confessed. “Can’t even get that right,” he says, smiling weakly. “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

_“Julius Caesar,”_ notes the director. “A great man, I think you said.”

“Nah, I was trolling Jefferson. He’s a great character of theatre in a great playwright’s pen; the man of history is… less certain. But I’ve been called a Caesar. Perhaps ’tis a fitting destiny that in my second life I’m damned to that infernal night of a coward’s obscurity.”

“I dunno,” says the director. “I think it’s, well, _valiant_ you’re willing to face that.”

“Not _willing,”_ Alexander retorts. “That implies… well, willingness, and you’re getting none of that.” 

Fury sighs. “You’d make a dangerous madman and I honestly don’t wanna deal with that. I can’t make any promises, but there may be small things you can do. Nothing grand like yesterday, but… I’ll look into getting you out of the office.”

“That’s all I’m asking for.” 

“In the meantime, here are your papers,” says Fury, pushing a stack of them across the desk. “Passport, voter registration, driver’s license— _not that you can drive yet—_ and birth certificate.” Alexander sits again and pulls the paperwork toward him.

“This says I was born in New York,” he realizes.

“Yeah. Between you and me, I think some people are hoping you’ll run for President,” Fury says—probably jokes; it sounds too dry for a lack of sarcasm. “Which might be why they gave you a record of military service. That or it’s just an excuse to put money in your bank account. Bank of New York-Mellon, by the way, they thought you’d like that. You’re thirty-one; you served in the Army, eventually became a JAG, then a CIA analyst, now you work for ASCENT, also as an analyst. You’ve got a JD from Columbia—graduated early, with a concurrent PhD in PoliSci, no less. They made you impressive.”

_ – they made a god from their pretty little catamite –  _

“And my name is Alexander Faucette.” Alexander swallows. The words are bitter and not at all musical. 

“Yeah. It’s close enough to the truth that you’re unlikely to slip up.”

“It’s close enough to the truth that if I happen upon Ron Chernow, _with this face,_ he’ll have an aneurysm.”

“Well, if you wanna take it up with the Feds, you can. And as for the face thing, I can rectify that.” Fury brandishes a fist.

Alexander pales.

Fury says, “I’m joking."

Alexander isn't sure about that.

"Whatever you do, stay _alive,_ Hamilton,” Fury orders. “I’ll see you in New York. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” 

One last time, Alexander decides to bow: an elegant dip of the waist, the perfect manners of an eighteenth-century gentleman. Then he ignores Fury’s incredulity and marches onward, New York bound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and have a great rest of your day/evening/night/morning/afternoon/whenever-it-is-you're-reading-this! Epilogue will be up by tomorrow, and then begins a fun little adventure following this, advancing the Plot.


	4. Epilogue: Maelstrom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But, for the unquiet heart and brain,  
>  A use in measured language lies;  
> The sad mechanic exercise,  
> Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. _
> 
> _In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,  
>  Like coarsest clothes against the cold;  
> But that large grief which these enfold  
> Is given in outline and no more._
> 
> Or, in which the Author pretentiously quotes Tennyson in the summary to allude to the grief of the Main Protagonist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to just go ahead and post this so I don't have to worry about it anymore, and can start worrying about Part 2.

_Sunday, September 27, 2015_

 

Times Square, despite its multitudinous displays of nudity, profanity, lurid, clashing colors, and other vulgarities and displays of hedonism even his sponge-like mind has yet to comprehend, let alone analyze, is to Alexander Hamilton something cleansing. Comparatively void of the wicked miasma of _faction_ which breathes throughout Washington D.C., it is a spectacle whose wonder pervades the increasingly dulling fog which clouds his mind: in a world of curiosities, this remains unparalleled.

Somewhere between skyscrapers, motor vehicles, Twitter, and Justin Bieber, any sane mortal of the eighteenth century ought to have lost his or her faculties. And perhaps the travel has damaged his psyche (or perhaps, there has always been a crack), because despite objective wonders, which even warlocks like Washington would have pointed to and called _absurdities,_ New York doesn’t feel alien. 

It never could. This is _New York,_ the Empire City of the Empire State, the seat of America’s financial power. This is _his city,_ and the city of his dreams, built as if his wildest muse was chief architect. And like him, it’s awake long past midnight. 

This is home.

Here, amidst a crowed filled with people of every conceivable nationality, class, gender, sexuality, religion, and color, a man of the eighteenth century finds not terror or rage, but solace beyond all comparison.

It’s not enough.

_What am I going to do?_

Alexander starts work tomorrow. He spent his week searching for apartments and acclimating himself to modern culture and its perceptions of race, ethnicity, gender—that is, marveling that not a soul notices the Caribbean taint upon his accent, that no one seems to care he’s a bastard Creole, that his heritage and caprices don’t lend a ‘feminine’ quality to him, that he’s now considered ‘whole egg mayo’ with all the lack of suspicion that comes with that, but somehow, _somehow,_ of all things, his attraction to men alongside women is not a behavior but an inexorable and undesirable component of his self, a ‘sexuality’, an identity and stigma he’ll carry forever? Alexander’s glad the modern world has the word ‘bullshit,’ because that is _bullshit._ As soon as he can flirt without thinking of John or Eliza – 

He can’t. He can’t. He _can’t._

Alexander can’t think of that right now. Just as when he played piano and sang with Wanda and wondered whether he was making a friend or pretending to play with his own grieving daughter, he has to halt these thoughts. As quick as his mind is, his heart is always quicker; just as a demagogue usurps democracy, that caged beast, if allowed to operate beyond the boundaries of fact and reason, will play to his violent passions and consume him.

He keeps his mind trained on his feet and the ground beneath him.

It takes effort to navigate the subways. By the time he steps out, nearer to Battery Park than Trinity Church thanks to sheer inexperience, Alexander detests them. He spends awhile alone in the shadow of the Freedom Tower—circling the memorial parapets, reading the victims’ names, heart stuttering irrationally at the pair of Hamiltons, gazing down into the fountains and the gap that devours the maelstrom _in memoriam._

He almost died on September 11: Alexander’s raft sank in the rapids; he gasped, choked, and drowned in the storm, only to wake up in arms that didn’t belong to John. _Hell,_ he thought, but his tormentors were Hydra, not fiends of Old Gooseberry, insofar as a difference existed. Lafayette charged in bearing a blinding amulet that burned the others; it didn’t burn him. “Alex, mon ami, are you alright?” said Lafayette. Alexander nodded, and the warlock’s apprentice helped him amble to Washington, who healed him, and noted his strange capacity to channel magic despite his inability to cast spells. John was almost as furious when Washington and Hamilton decided to exploit this ability to bait a sorcerer as he was when Alexander had disappeared. Years later, Hamilton became the Secretary of the Treasury on the same day, and to an extent, it erased the blemish on the date.

Yet he has no memory of _this_ trauma, this great wound in America’s spirit. As the creator of Wall Street, and as a man revered as one of America’s fathers, he feels a strange duty to walk the museum and carry the burden of the tragedy. It’s the same duty that urged him to read his biography and listen to the soundtrack.

Alexander avoided the subject when Darcy asked, but the expectation remained that he would listen as he would to any other essential piece of modern culture. He listened to _The Wall_ and _Dark Side of the Moon_ and countless other classics as he read _The Lord of the Rings, 1984,_ and _A Christmas Carol;_ he watched 80s adventure flicks like _Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Back to the Future_ and _Captain America_ as he watched films like _The Big Short, Interstellar,_ and _The Theory of Everything._ He absorbed as much as possible. Of course he would devour his biography, filling the thing with scrawled notes, corrections, and brief memoirs on notebook paper; of course he would listen to the soundtrack after its release yesterday.

He finished his biography on Friday.

* * *

_A devout woman, Eliza never lost faith that she and Hamilton would be gloriously reunited in the afterlife. She prized a small envelope that Hamilton had once sent her, with a romantic inscription emblazoned across the back: “I heal all wounds but those which love hath made.”_ _For Eliza, those wounds had never healed. On November 9, 1854—a turbulent year in which the Kansas Nebraska Act was enacted and the union that Hamilton had done so much to forge stood gravely threatened—Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton died at age ninety-seven. Her widowhood lasted fifty years, or slightly longer than her life before the duel. She was buried where she had always longed to be: right beside her Hamilton in the Trinity Churchyard._

On reflex, he turned the page. The next was, of course, blank.

_What am I going to do?_

* * *

Alexander spends an hour in the museum. He thinks there’s something of catharsis to it for those who witnessed the tragedy, but he can only imagine, and what he sees is ritual. “No day shall erase you from the memory of time,” the words of Virgil in _The Aeneid,_ feel grotesquely warped, hollow, and manipulative of the Christian conscience associating Virgil with Dante; the people who died here were not soldiers, as the antagonistic lovers who died in each others’ arms the words referenced originally. The memorial transforms tragedy into a religious occasion, one meant to feel profound—a sacrament of a religion whose scriptures are the divinely inspired Constitution and Declaration of Independence, whose Moses is George Washington, and whose Prophet is Thomas Jefferson.

And Alexander is a Christian and a patriot, but he can’t help but wonder if they made a mistake in building Washington, D.C. as a New Olympus. He remembers his statue; they’re venerated like gods, as Catalina said. If speaking against Jefferson is blasphemous, is he, by extension, a False Prophet? Perhaps it’s for the best that Fury won’t allow him to be Alexander Hamilton; his legacy could be poisonous.

_What am I going to do?_

He leaves and walks to Wall Street, carefully walking on the sidewalk that keeps the monument in Trinity Churchyard out of his sight. There were anti-mutant protestors here yesterday alongside Occupy, claiming that “beasts” and “animals” ran the “un-American” banks, and demanding the arrest of mutant banker Arthur Montgomery. There are people on both sides of the political aisle who hate the Other; Alexander hazards now that Sanders’ tolerance will be his undoing and Stryker’s ascendancy. Today, there are only tourists, taking selfies with the massive statue of Washington at the site where His Excellency was first sworn in.

Alexander has always been terrible at tending gardens. One particularly slanderous biographer whose thinly-veiled character assassination he put down in disgust wrote of Hamilton’s tragically brown thumb as though it proved his insensitivity, his sociopathy, his inability to feel but superficially—that his earth-shattering grief for Philip could only have been politically motivated egocentrism. 

But he planted seeds in a garden of a different sort, too, and it grew in his absence into among the tallest towers in the world—towers that fell, but that America rebuilt.

_A garden you never get to see._

Alexander snorts: at least the musical got _one_ thing wrong. Steve texts and inquires about his location. He snaps a selfie with Washington and sends something back that may or may not be clever—there’s a lump in his throat, there’s a hole in his chest, and water frays the screen: he can’t quite tell. 

Then he sighs and gazes back to the church. It may as well be Frodo’s journey to Mordor for how much his body rebels with dread against the idea. His feet feel heavy, his throat feels tight, and for the first time since he arrived, there’s a pinch of something like agony in his gut, and he curses under his breath, _no, no, no. Fuck, no._ This was his undoing. He can’t return to that chronic pain. 

He can’t. He _can’t._ It ended Alexander’s hopes of venturing to Europe, to Scotland, to the scenes of his beloved Shakespearean plays—of walking in the real Caesar’s footsteps.

_Fly not; stand still,_ said Brutus, Caesar’s Burr. _Ambition’s debt is paid._

But it isn’t paid. It’s yet another debt he owes: Alexander is alive, heart pounding, every cell reeling as he marches himself to the church like Washington marched them through Valley Forge; the debtor, the _sinner,_ he trembles, though it isn’t cold, as though he’s lost in that same winter. 

But Alexander reaches the gates of Mordor. Of Mustafar and the Dark Side. Of Hell. The churchyard. He laughs at himself, or maybe he chokes back tears. Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here, which is perfectly fine with him; his hopes for reconciliation are buried under that grave—that monument—that _thing_ he can’t really look at long enough to consider other than in the abstract: _Oh. There’s my grave. Oh. I used to be dead. Oh. That’s strange._

But his emotions are far ahead of his mind, for once wholly inadequate for comprehension, and Alexander can’t cage them; like the water at the memorial pools, disappearing into the abyss, grief swirls like a maelstrom and slips into the wide gulf in his chest, the gap he’s starting to think might be his heart.

So he doesn’t look at the grave.

He avoided the musical in much the same way.

But sooner or later, everyone has to face the music, and Alexander is no exception.

The biography left him empty. 

The musical left him _wanting:_ wanting for John, Eliza, Angie, James, _Philip –_

Wanting for what he can never have. He can never be satisfied. Even Lin-Manuel Miranda, who has yet to meet him, knows this.

_What am I going to do?_

A few moments later, the captain stands in front of him. He arrived from Arabia earlier today, and Alexander hasn’t seen him before now. “Steve,” Alexander says. He’s entered the churchyard somehow, numbly; he doesn’t remember it. Steve turns. Fading marks of stitches adorn his left eye, as does a nasty-looking bruise.

Alexander comes to stand beside the captain and gazes at the graves. He says, more harshly than he intends, “I didn’t know you were meeting me here.” 

_Here._ Philip’s body, or rather his skeleton now, is unmarked—such is the fate of duelers—but he’s buried where they’re standing. Alexander wonders if Eliza had to fight for the right to put her husband’s corpse to rest. Chernow never mentioned it, but it would be fitting, somehow, if even in death his Betsey couldn’t get him to rest, to stop, to take a break.

“I don’t wanna bother you,” says Steve. “I just. Uh…” He trails off.

Over the nearer buildings, Alexander can see the One World Trade Center, the Freedom Tower, and it occurs to him in a rush that one could’ve seen the attacks from his grave. He doesn’t know why, but he hates that—that he _was_ present, on that fateful September 11, as countless people lost their lives; he was already dead. America suffered, and he was incapable of caring.

Perhaps he is a sociopath.

That _this_ of all things, at his own grave, bothers him would indeed suggest a certain superficiality to his soul.

“Mr. Hamilton – ”

Alexander interrupts, “I hope you know that – ” Breathlessness chokes the words. His head is buzzing. “That’s not even my surname. Faucette. My—legal—name… it’s Alexander _Faucette,”_ he hisses.

“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry,” says Steve, clearly frustrated. “Hiding is… well, it’s awful. They made me do it for a couple of weeks, and it was terrible, and… and so’s waking up and finding out you left, and everyone kept living anyway. So I brought flowers. Here.”

Steve passes the bouquet—insofar as this flowery drapery can be called a bouquet. An arrangement assembled from white orchids, crimson roses, sheer, shimmering ribbons, and an ornamental glass cross at the center, it’s a thing of quality, entirely unlike the other handfuls of flowers atop her grave. “These are the flowers of a funeral, not a tribute to beloved _character_ long-departed _,_ and may arouse curiosity and confusion,” Alexander says. Yet he still kneels beside the grave. He contorts himself to avoid the monument. Jagged, watery lines warp the already faded letters:

 

_ELIZA_  
daughter of  
_PHILLIP SCHUYLER_

 

Pressure mounts behind his eyes. Alexander clenches his jaw and almost crushes his wife’s requiem in balled, paling fists.

 

widow of  
_ALEXANDER HAMILTON_  
born at Albany  
Aug. 9th 1757  
died at Washington  
Nov. 9th 1854  
_INTERRED HERE_

 

“These flowers are not inexpensive,” Alexander mutters as he lays the flowers across the grave fifty years less eroded than the stomach-churning, vision-blurring monument beside it. He abandoned her. He abandoned her in death, as in life, and now he’s no longer buried beside her—or is he? Alexander wonders whether a skeleton still languishes there. The spell to bring him back required only a bone fragment; how much of him is left in the grave? 

How much of Alexander Hamilton is left in himself? 

He remembers death, remembers a glimpse of light and _music—_ and after that, he remembers oblivion. 

That glass cross gleams accusingly. It’s possible, of course, they were never reunited because Alexander’s soul has always belonged to Hell.

Either way he can never take her hand as in the script.

Lower lip trembling, he rests his palm against the stone. His fingers curl around the engraved letters of her name, and he wonders about the other side. “It seems I’ve been again _indebted_ without my consent,” Alexander says harshly. _Ambition’s debt breathes._

“No,” Steve says. “You don’t owe me a thing.” His figure, blurred through tunneling vision, retreats.

Alexander could turn to stone here: he holds every muscle rigid. As solitude sepulchers him, his heart quickens and his chest tightens, lump swelling in his throat. This is the primal fear of a man being buried alive, thrown to the rats and the maggots, because there’s something stirring inside him that would gladly take Hell over this. It’s self-preservation: he can’t be alone.

“Steve,” says Alexander, voice hoarse, hardly audible. He presses his fist against his lips and clears his throat to muffle what might have been a sob, then bites out, “Wait.”

The captain stops and turns. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I merely—my faults are not yours, forgive me. And… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Steve. He shuffles awkwardly. 

Standing from the stone is a labor. Alexander stumbles and catches himself on his own grave. He holds himself there for a moment and glares down at the decrepit thing, almost surprised, somehow, that touching it doesn’t burn him or stop his heart—that seems like the sort of supernatural bullshit that would happen to him, and it might not be terrible: he’d love little more than waking up to Steve’s resuscitating mouth on his – 

But he can’t think about that. Alexander thinks of John and hurts. 

All the ancient grave itself brings is curiosity and disbelief: _Am I really almost fifty years_ older _than this?_

And the words of a different story entirely: _Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?_

He brushes the dirt off of his clothes and, very deliberately, blinks twice before shambling forward, so that he and Steve can pretend his eyes are dry.

They face the pair of graves in silence.

“You can stay with us for as long as you need,” says Steve finally. “It’s probably better that way. I—you’ve done well with Starktech, but… there are other things. Dishwashers, stoves, paying bills. Just know that… if you need help with anything, that’s what we do. We help people.”

“Thank you,” Alexander says again.

There’s another pause.

“Do you want to say a few words?” asks Steve quietly.

“Who? Me, say a few words?” Alexander scoffs, smiles a playful smile that can’t reach his eyes. “You must be out of your mind.”

“Do you want to say _words,_ then?” 

“No.” Eliza doesn’t deserve more empty paragraphs.

“You want me to?”

“Of course not,” says Alexander. Then he starts. “I’m sorry, did you want to?”

“It feels like a funeral. Like someone should be speaking.”

“Or like someone should be singing, aye—yeah.”

Steve hesitates, then asks, “Do you know _Amazing Grace_?”

“John Newton’s hymn? We chanted the words in church on occasion, but…” Alexander shakes his head, then bows it. “No. I know neither all the lyrics nor the whole of the melody; like _The Star Spangled Banner,_ it had yet to be written,” he says. “Either way, a song’ll make aspiring videographers of your enthusiasts and probably attract questions, especially considering the flowers.” 

Steve shrugs. “I dunno, Alex. People think I’d sing at a fellow American hero’s grave without being asked,” he says—which is true, Alexander admits, so he gives no counterargument. “You know _The Parting Glass,”_ Steve says.

_The Parting Glass_ is not a funeral song, rather a song for the parting of friends, but Alexander nods slowly; those are the same thing. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I know it too. We can sing that.” 

And so they sing.

It begins awkwardly, but they’ve both rich voices. Alexander’s is perhaps more practiced, but Steve isn’t holding back tears as he remembers singing with his daughter, who died mad: the talent’s roughly equal between them, and they manage a haunting acapella harmony that indeed draws attention and a few phone videographers.

So be it; Alexander is nothing if not a performer. From penning letters, to promoting laws, to pleasuring lovers, he revels in showmanship and elegance; if his passion for voice is one he doesn’t indulge often, then he puts in all the more effort to make this time count. 

It’s his exequial etude for Eliza, his hymn for a sweet saint society shackled to an undeserving scoundrel, his song for the scions of a shattered legacy, a story she sung with her last breath.

In the silence afterward, Alexander prays. He offers thankfulness for her life and gratitude for the children the Lord gave to them. In the end, he bows his head, lets Steve’s reverent recitations and homilies fade to nothing more than a comforting murmur, and prays for forgiveness; absolution.

_She takes his hand –_

No.

It’s only the whisper of the wind. Death has claimed them. It’s not only his imagination; it feels more like a melody.

* * *

_Of all the money that e’er I had, I’ve spent it in good company._

_And all the harm that e’er I’ve done, alas it was to none but me._

_And all I’ve done for want of wit, to memory now I can’t recall._

_So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be to you all._

_Of all the comrades that e’er I had, they’re sorry for my going away,_

_And all the sweethearts that e’er I had, they’d wish me one more day to stay._

_But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not,_

_I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call, “Good night and joy be to you all.”_

_Good night and joy be to you all._

* * *

They get a drink.

* * *

And when at last they return to the Tower, having spoken candidly of aspirations and the emotions humanity’s oldest medicine reveals, Alexander is resolute.

He’s healthy; he’s young; he’s alive. And Alexander’s mind is as sharp as it was the day he set foot in New York, burdened by gloom but not even the beginnings of age. 

It’s just like leaving St. Croix and the hurricane: he’s drowning.

There’s one way out: to rise up, be his own deliverer, and become a new man of this new world.

Alexander won’t give himself time to look back. 

_What am I going to do?_

He’ll devour new literature, philosophy, and history, and he’ll teach himself every language he can get his hands on. He’ll learn the latest theories of political science and anthropology. And he’ll study economics. He brings a great stack of various economic literature from Tony’s library to his bedroom; he intends to begin tonight. He will adapt his views to this contemporary, globalized era, and he will seek to enforce the resulting fresh theories, to the benefit of America and the globe.

And when he’s finished, he’ll study science—physics, astronomy, astrophysics, chemistry, geology, quantum mechanics, string theory. And he’ll study medicine, _medicine,_ his oldest passion, perhaps his oldest aspiration, the desire that burned in him from the moment hostile hands plucked his slight, trembling frame from his mother’s corpse ‘till it was forgotten in his frenzy of glory. He remembers it now. He’ll pursue the secrets of biology, genetics, biochemistry, pharmacology, and psychology. 

And there is great glory in science, even if it is in large part in shadow. He will become a man of science, a giant on whose shoulders future generations will stand on; a bearer of the torch, like Socrates, leading cavemen out into the darkness and illuminating it.

And he’ll write. He’ll never stop writing. He writes right now.

Smirking, Alexander takes Chernow’s _magnum opus_ in his hands and turns to the blank page that had so frightened him. 

_What am I going to do?_

_I am not throwing away my shot,_ he scrawls in the margin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end!
> 
> But here’s the deal: I’m breaking this up into a series rather than just one story because parts of this will involve RPF. I mean, technically the very beginning of this fic was RPF, but let’s be real, Bill O’Reilly is pretty much a fictional character at this point, and there’s something of a taboo on RPF involving the original Hamilton cast.
> 
> I _tried_ to keep Lin out of the story, I really tried, but the Muse insisted. A fictionalized version of LMM will have some moments in the spotlight, and in a surprisingly Plotty way. I know some people will want to avoid that. Probably. So I’m making it into a series so QueenWithABeeThrone has the option of not being directly linked to RPF, even if it is RPF without smut. 
> 
> What this means: there will be several self-contained-ish stories in this ‘verse. Most of them can stand on their own-ish, because they’re little adventures with roughly same flavor as the MCU movies. So far in the line up of Big Stories, we’ve got a swashbuckler heist, a sci-fi comedy, a shameless ripoff of Avatar: The Last Airbender’s The Storm and The Beach, a ghost story homage to the famous BBQ chip ghost fic where Alex and Lin are both protagonists, a political/drama/mystery/mystery/thriller, a fantasy, and lastly, a climax and a resolution whose plot descriptions in themselves are spoilers. I aim to finish this by December 2017.
> 
> Lastly, Doctor Strange is not considered canon here. It Jossed my ideas for the Time Stone and I need the Time Stone for reasons of plot and faux symbolism ( _it’s only a matter of time_ ), ergo Doctor Strange can’t be here. Should I just… low-key cross this over with Sherlock so we can still have Benedict Cumberbatch? 
> 
> P.S.: The long italicized quote is verbatim from the Chernow biography (sans a footnote); the reference for Hamilton being a terrible farmer is from _Duel_ by Thomas Fleming, who indeed, within two paragraphs, alleged that Philip's death didn't change Hamilton, and then went on to ramble about how Hamilton was a bad farmer and therefore Materialistic, Selfish, and Not-Close-To-Nature. While I seriously doubt Fleming would be so harsh if the musical canon was reality, and while I'm only mildly pissed at Fleming for making such a weird comparison bc real!Hamilton's morality is debatable, the image of our Alex reading something like that hurt me inside, especially with the lyrical parallel—so naturally I shared it.
> 
> Reviews are appreciated. :)


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